We Are All So Many Things...
My Process, Anyway, is the Same as When I was a Kid just "Making Stuff".
It sometimes seems like there is (are) someone(s) who’ve cracked a code. But there isn’t a code. Things are always changing. And sometimes there are pivots.
Yesterday’s inky fingers made sense of some things.
and today’s inky fingers unraveled that progress, an interruption, or a fragment?
Drifts
There is a door,
I see it.
I walk up to it,
I can even open it a little,
But I look out into nothing —
A blankness, not even stars.
But then, an interruption,
A familiar rumination! I can see the old barn,
With its second-floor door to nowhere.
After my mom died, he told me he took things,
A journal I made for her, scribbled in, though I didn’t know it,
And a family photograph,
He thought it was America,
“This is not our family,” I laughed, “it’s Italy.”
He declared his prejudices, and threw it away in anger,
Or jealousy, of this long-scattered family — but family —
In black and white, a small and only piece of another’s past,
Gone.
How am I to open my own doors with such drifts?
15 January 2024 (No. 227)
Emotional, beautiful. I wish I had better words to describe your poem but I’ll leave it at that.
Thanks for showing your thought process. I love seeing not just the end product, but all the little happenstance. Lovely snippets indeed and your poem was lovely as well 🥰