it's been the same song 
for a month now

my husband
putters about whistling
this tune unleashing
my dusty memory of
long ago motherhood

two daughters
so young and wee
afraid of climbing stairs 
of being alone at night
scared of the spooky basement
and shadowy crannies 
in this old, creaky house

so we taught them to be brave
(cheaper than remodeling)

soon courageous maggie
marches into battle 
confidently meeting the dark
as she sings Jesus loves me
this I know for the Bible
tells me so …

her protection spell
from evil

little sister mollie
couldn’t reach the stair railing
nor be bothered
with tunes and lyrics

until one night
she surprises us 
with her own version
of the song  

as if cheering
at a pep rally 
she crawled each step
relentlessly chanting 
GOD GOD GOD GOD

I knew in my heart
heaven heard them both

Dad is babysitting
our two-year old daughter
while he’s cleaning out
the enclosed space under the porch

he’s rummaging through
a box of clutter
looking for a salvaged part
to repair that old lawnmower
he rescued from the curb

when he looks up
panic fills his veins —
mollie is gone!

• he yells •
mollie? where are you?
MOLLIE? ANSWER ME!

• silence •
then a tiny voice from under the porch says
I like spiders, daddy
They taste salty

It was a bad day
in second grade

after school
you curled up
in Dad’s cozy big chair
trying to disappear

the kids called me names

I told them
adam and eve was just a story
that we really come from apes
and they all laughed
and argued with me

they called me “monkey girl”

you sobbed

name-calling
shunning
ridicule
so young to wield
these weapons

wisdom says
belief vs. reason
deserves a kind conversation

last week
the grumpy man
at the grocery store
called me “mask lady”

I laughed as if
he wasn’t being nasty
replying in my joking voice
I’m just trying not to kill you

he smiled back

both of us were reminded
we don’t need to agree
we just need a little love

Your grade school teachers would be shocked
naughty words were so taboo
it made that day monumental

even though your roughhousing
knocked it over
your dad apologized for snapping at you

I’m sorry
I am an asshole

But then the stunning part
he said

But you’re assholes too
You know better
So say it with me
”I am an asshole”

and there it was
a family mantra  
had been cast

it’s a liberating admission

the one thing our ego 
never wants to hear
never wants to say

yet there it was
freely confessed
punctuating forever
the various failures 
of our lifetimes

Can you feel it?
Say it with me
I • am • an • asshole

NUMBERS WERE YOUR BARBIES

your little girl mind
anthropomorphized mathematics
as if they were your Barbie dolls

equations had feelings
variables had friends
irrational numbers were magical

quadratic equations couldn’t
be solved because 
they were mad at you

angles could be trisected
but the method was a secret
so you wrote it down
and mailed it to yourself

in middle school
you told the guidance counselor
with complete sincerity
your career choice was
TIME TRAVELER

you somehow knew
you could live in
hyperdimensional space
and when you were grown-up
I would visit you there
every day

Dad worked second shift
repairing trains
maggie was too young for school
mollie was barely speaking in sentences
so we shifted our schedules to match his

at night
we snuggled in their bed
mom in the middle
girls on either side
so they could both hear the stories

the ritual was 
first goldilocks
then cinderella

as I told the tales
my voice slowly softened 
to lull tiny mollie to slumber

once she’d conked out
maggie and I would slip
out of bed for another hour of fun

just as the clock at the royal ball
was about to strike midnight
maggie whispered
Mom, Johnny Carson is gonna start

I whispered back
Okay, let’s just be quiet until Mollie conks

we remained motionless
quietly
waiting  
starting to drift off ourselves

Bam!
we were startled
by wide awake mollie 
still pretending to be asleep

in her two-year old way
she thought she could get the story resumed
by reciting her lines

CONK CONK CONK

By second grade
you were an insatiable reader

unbeknown to us
each night you’d sneak
with your book
your blanket
your flashlight
to hide under the cardboard box
from our first microwave
aka “the fort” in your bedroom

then one day
presumably, to stimulate some language skill
Mrs. Rentmeister had asked her students
to each tell the class about their bed 

when it was maggie’s turn
she confessed she didn’t sleep in a bed
curiosity was piqued
eye brows were raised 
inquiries were made
where do you sleep then?

to which the always truthful maggie replied:
I sleep in a cardboard box

a short time later
our phone rang
the principal’s interrogation began
the flashlight was confiscated
social services was not contacted

It was the highest honor of first grade

when a child memorized the
Pledge of Allegiance
they were chosen to lead the school
in the morning pledge
on the loud speaker

when Maggie was invited to take her turn
she declined explaining:
“I can’t. I’ve already pledged my allegiance to France.”

yes, first grade

We questioned if it might be too harsh
for girls still in grade school

grounding seemed a severe punishment
but their bickering seemed endless

we laid down the law
banished them to their room
grounded for a week

an hour later 
they requested an audience

granted

father and mother seated on couch
girls center stage

the presentation commences
they cite from their bundle of
my parenting manuals and 
my psychology texts
their irrefutable proof that
GROUNDING IS NOT
an effective form of behavior modification

being reasonable parents
we saw the flaws and relented
opting instead for a little B.F. Skinner

we got a family membership 
for karate lessons
where we could whoop those little asses

I wrote this poem to accompany a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies I baked for my grandson Roland. They are one of his favorites.

GRANNY’S OLD TIMEY OATMEAL COOKIES
(read with a West Virginny accent)

Steal a chicken from a farm
and have her lay an egg
never ask yer neighbor
it’s not polite to beg

then hike on down to Kiser’s store
and wait til he ain’t lookin’
swipe some sugar from his bin
you’ll need it fer the cookin’

plant a field of wheat and oats
then reap, then sift, then mill
and steal a tad of moonshine
from yer grandpa’s still

find a cow that’s black n’ white
and squeeze tight on her udder
take the milk and churn it hard
until it turns to butter

a pinch of soda, cinnamon,
nutmeg, and some salt
if it doesn’t taste just right
it’s yer own damn fault

don’t forget some purple grapes
just leave ‘em in the sun
then toss ‘em in the batter
fer some raisin fun

beat it up, plop in drops
bake fer 8 to 9
let ‘em cool and store them tight
I’m sure they’ll taste just fine

remember grandpa’s moonshine
it goes reeeeeal good with sweets
so pour yourself a four-swig cup
and chug it with yer eats

them angels up in heaven
are cheerin’ from above
cuz now inside yer tummy
is yer Granny’s love

If you’re wondering what got me started writing poems, you’ll find the story here. Or, if you’re wondering why this collection is called Slender Stalk, click here. If you’re wondering where you can read the past issues of Slender Stalk, click here. If you’re wondering where you can read more of my poems, check out my website: Life at 240.

If you know someone who you think would enjoy these poems, please feel free to forward this email to them. If you’re reading this poetry letter for the first time, you can subscribe here to get ten poems emailed to you at the beginning of each month.