A Shape: To Tend
A poem I don't remember ever writing
A few years back, and consistently for about six months, I traded poems with a friend every Friday. I’d wake up earlier than usual, make a cup of coffee, and give myself one hour to throw something together.
I’d sit at my farm table and tap fingers on the hard wood as I stared out my apartment’s tall windows. Inevitably something would come to mind and I’d start typing. I tried not to judge or overthink things as they appeared on my screen—I let come out whenever wanted to come out.
Some days I liked the shape of a few short lines. Other days I enjoyed bigger shapes, or multiples of the same size. I enjoyed making these shapes of words, and sometimes the words in the shapes made me happy, too.
I’d tinker and play around until sixty minutes was up, then I’d send it to my friend and anxiously await their email. It was one of my most favorite ever short-term habits.
I recently discovered the collection of weekly poems from back then. In almost every case I have no memory of the written piece. Sure, I remember sitting down to compose it, but the content, for the most part, was lost.
Today I plucked one out of the mix and brought it back to life. Its original title was “To Tend,” which I like, so I’ll keep it.
Only thing I did to it was make it feel like I’m feeling right now. Which, I suppose, is all a poem is meant to do anyhow. Here it is:
To Tend
My croton’s leaves are sinking.
I noticed this while pacing around my apartment
while trying to decide what to do next.
As quickly as I’m reminded that life needs nourishment,
I forget. The blue glass water bottle sits half-full
atop my kitchen cabinet. It gathers dust.
Outside—there are no trees to trap evil spirits
like there are back home.
I do not know for sure how often I should feed it.
Still learning, I suppose.
My habit is to wait until the agony is obvious.
When soft leaves drape like sheets
and there’s a clammy tack on the vesture.
In a child’s voice I apologize and pour,
a gentle sip onto the dry soil.
I touch the fragile body,
slide my finger from apex to axil
so gently I’m unsure I’m even touching it.
I tell it everything will be ok
though I don’t know if this is true.
It’s winter, and lemonade is sadness. Ask me why
I’m afraid of love and my face shifts from smile to stone,
like when Jay-Z spoofs Wonderwall in Glastonbury.
Lights may flash but I, too, keep my sunglasses on.
There will be dancing and drinks—
things to keep me from answering the question.
Only when I am exhausted and the room has cleared
will I finally admit to how badly I want watering.
And if the person asking is who I hope is asking,
I will tell them they are they like mammatus clouds
over El Paso at sunset. They are the whip crack of thunder.
They have what I need to turn from desert seed to stalk.