Teddy

I unbutton your vest and unfasten your overalls.
The ones I made when I decided that protecting you and letting you last decades longer was more important than being able to touch you.
I pull off your vest and see the flannel skin grafts on your chest.
You always needed some surgery or other.
I remember the first one.

I loved to rub the back of my thumb against the back of your leg.
I wore the fur off and then wore a hole in your skin.
I was terrified when I found it.
I ran to Mom and showed her your boo-boo.
I watched Mom sew it closed.
The pucker gave the spot friction.
I decided to rub your unappealing stomach and only use your leg for emergencies and big problems.
Eventually I wore a hole through your stomach too, so I migrated to your back.
But after that first time when I was five, I was the one to sew you up.

I covered your mouth with a cup until the anesthesia set you to sleep.
"Scalpel"
Mouth covered by a handkerchief, I handed myself the scissors to cut the thread.

Over the years, your fluff condensed, after being slept on, sat on, hugged and trampled.
I tore some fluff out of an old comforter and stuffed it in your chest.
This one heart shaped piece would dangle out, and I was always stuffing it back in.
Until the summer after you turned 18.

Then I decided major surgery was needed.
I went to JoAnn's, bought a bag of stuffing, gray flannel for the skin grafts, and camoflage flannel for your new clothes.
I would have preferred plaid pajamas for you, but they didn't have any.
"Scalpel" I said as I passed myself the scissors to clean up your edges so I could stitch easier.
I pulled the blanket fluff out of your body and packed you full of fresh fiber.
Now you can't sit anymore, and your arms stick out at different angles, and you look fatter.
But still, it's better this way.
I haven't touched you since.

Knowing it'll help you last, I've been roughing up your vest and pants instead.
As I run the back of my thumb across your belly, I'm 5, 10, 15, 20...
I feel safe.
I want to sob hysterically.
I want to fall asleep.
You were always there.
Dad wasn't always there.
Mom wasn't always there.
Even God wasn't always there.
But you were.

I tried to name you, but in the end, I'd forget and end up calling you, "Teddy."
It was the only name that stuck, unimaginative as it was.

I remember a picture of my first Easter.
I couldn't even recognize you.
Your fur was fluffy, not matted.
It was white, not dirty grey.
Your eyes and nose were bright, not chipped.
And you wore a yellow ribbon.
You were as big as I was.
I had to drag you around by your ear.

Why did I fall in love with you?
What was it that made you essential to fall asleep?

I used to use you for a pillow.
You used to fit in the crook of my arm.
But even now I wake up and look for you if I knock you off the bed.
I feel better feeling you under my arm or against my back.
You've been in my life too long for me to simply put you on a shelf.
I will always love you.

Living by Faith

The waves crash over my head, pushing my body down.
I kick and fight my way back up, gasping air, salt in my mouth.
Each time I surface, I try to empty my mouth of the water.
I'm not in control, but also not quite drowning.

Depression

I am alone, circling the black lake.
I focus on the green grass, the chirping birds,
Trying to remember the beauty of the forest.
One day I will return, if I am vigilant.
But I glance at the still waters casting twisted, ugly reflections,
And I trip.
My hand sends ripples across the surface.
I try to stand, but lakeweed has wrapped around my arm, pulling me under.
The more I resist, the more I struggle,
The more I am entangled.
I scream for help, desperately scanning the trees,
But no one is there.
The water is warm and soothing.
My movements become lethargic.
I fall asleep as I am slowly suffocated.

On Graduating

I'm sorry for not being miserable. I apologize to each person who has or will ask me if I'm sad it's over. No, I'm not. In a few weeks, or more likely, in September, then I will realize the difference and maybe then I will be sad. But today, I'm looking forward to graduation day. To the day after it, and the day after that. To a career and a smaller car and an apartment for myself and my Emalet. No, I'm not dwelling on the past four years of late nights and panic attacks, sleeping through classes and B papers returned. Of pop quizzes and lonely weekends. Yes I value the time I've spent here and I wouldn't trade it for anything. I love the teachers and all of my classes, but this part of my life is ending and I'm ready, if a little scared, for the future.

My Toy

Master is holding a toy. Master is holding the shiniest, mostest perfectest toy in the whole world. I can't contain myself. I want the toy Master is holding more than anything I've ever wanted in my whole life. I bark and squeal and whine my loudest so that he will know I want the toy. Master takes the toy and gives it to another dog. Didn't he know I wanted it? The other dog is happy with its shiny toy. My shiny toy.

Master is holding a toy. Master is holding the bounciest, mostest perfectest toy in the whole world. I can't take my eyes off the toy. I jump up at Master and run and squirm with excitement so that he will know I want the toy. Master takest the toy and gives it to another dog. Didn't he know I wanted it? The other dog chases my bouncy toy.

Master is holding my toy. It is not shiny, or bouncy, but is my perfectest toy. I sit very still with my eyes on Master. He may give it to another dog. He kneels down to me, my toy in his hand. The one thing I want in all the world is to snatch my toy before he gives it away. But I watch Master. Below my vision he holds it out to me. Slowly, carefully, I take it in my jaws, without looking. His hand is still on it, and I wait, both of us holding the toy. He smiles and lets go. "Good girl."

Looking at you

You're talking.
Polite eye contact.
But you're so perfect my eyes are caressing your face before I can stop myself and I look away.
But you're still talking.
And it's polite to maintain eye contact, right?
So I return my gaze, resolutely keeping them on your eyes.
And your dark brown bottomless wells look back.
Where's the line between maintaining eye contact and staring?
Have I crossed it? Am I staring?
Can you tell?
I want to look away before you realize, but I'm locked into your gaze.
Wait... I don't think you've blinked yet.
Have you been...
No, you couldn't.
I look away.

On returning to the United States

I don't have a home anymore. I haven't had a home for the last six months. I have a place to stay, I live in a house, but it's not my home. Vancouver's not my home. Kent is not my home. Monmouth isn't home. I'm homeless. HOme used to be where ever I slept 5+ nights a week. But the Smith's have never been home. There is no end of the road for me. We arrive in America, we arrive in Portland, we arrive at OSU, we arrive at Monmouth... at none of these points do I drop all my luggage and say, "I'm home."

The Mother of Your children

Look at me.
See me as the mother of your children.
My thick thighs and astounding ass will ensure I have the energy to give you child after child.
My wide hips promise each one will emerge uncomplicated, from between my legs.
My belly has plenty of space to cradle them carefully.
My breasts are large and will not leave our children hungry.
My arms are strong, able to carry them.
My hands are small and nimble sliver pullers, hair braiders, button sewers, and tear wipers.
My hair is long and thick, keeping them warm in my embraces.
My neck is long, a head niche that fits them as they grow.
My shoulders are wide for piggy back rides.
My lips are full for mother kisses.
My ears are small and acute, hearing the smallest whimper and snicker.
My eyes are large and clear, seeing all.

ADD: Nature or Nurture?

On long car trips I'd watch the rain drops race each other to the bottom of the window, rooting for certain beads, for hours.
When the teacher told the whole class "heads down" because of the few, I'd have adventures in the cave of my arms.
When I had my nose put in the corner, I would name the bumps in the wall.
Now I stare into space while you talk to me.
Was it always in my nature, or was it nurtured in me?

I think I'm bored

I think I'm bored.
I swing my arm so my loose watch goes back and forth.
Like a pendulum counting half seconds.
I swing my arm the other way but stop.
The watch doesn't move right.
I go back to the first swinging motion.
I think I'm bored.

Stinky Bagels exercise

Copy Change of "I used to be but now I am" by Ted Berrigan

I used to be bubbly and elusive,
But now I am rooted.

I used to be elfin,
But now I am boorish.

I used to live each day for what it was,
But now I live for yesterday or tomorrow.

I used to play, ever and always,
But now I work, day in and out.

I used to laugh and cry,
But now I only smile, when I remember to.

I used to feel hate and love,
But now I simply tolerate.

I used to believe in fairies,
But, alas, I have killed them all.

The Fire

The Bakers were camping midAugust when Mr. Baker's cell phone rang.

"Hi, Philip. Three more days... oh. Oh, no. Uh huh. Uh huh. Okay. Yeah. We'll be right there."

"What's wrong, Bill?" Mrs. Baker asked as she unpacked breakfast.

"Sara's gone into early labor."

"But she's not due for six weeks!"

"Phil's worried. The doctors are going to try to deliver the baby, but Sara wants us."

"Of course. Let's pack up."

"Leave it. Just grab our clothes and I'll take down the tent."

While Bill drove home, he had this nagging feeling like he'd left the coffeepot on at home. He tried to shake it, convinced it was his concern at leaving their food and coolers behind. But the fire he'd been building when he'd been interrupted had caught, and the crows had knocked over the paper plates from the picnic table. Soon the fire had spread to the dry pine needles and the hot, dry forest burst into flames.


The old fern was crowded and shriveled, shaded by tall trees who stole the light a hundred feet above, and fighting for what escaped with dozens of brothers and sisters.

It hadn't rained in a long time, and the fern's fronds were dry and brittle.

The smoke teased its fronds gently, and the fern sighed in relief. Almost better than water was fire. Fire chewed the leaves and scoured the forest floor, but it couldn't reach roots. A few minutes of almost unbearable pain, and then peaceful rest until the first rain.

And then the old fern had another chance at life. To grow anew among its brothers and sisters, bathed in sunlight that the bare trees could not steal. To have an equal chance at water and space.

The old fern choked on the smoke, felt the first flames, and smiled.


The ponderosa stood tall, fighting for the sun. Each year was a race. Who could grow tallest? Who would expand above the others, and hoard the most sunlight?

As they grew, lower branches died from unuse. The tree lamented its ugly dead branches running down its length

The smoke rose high and the tree hoped the fire would reach it. The fire would climb its trunk, cleansing it of dead branches, and release its seeds.

It could hear the crack of others letting their seeds go.

Unfortunately the fire would also claim its living leaves and branches. But everyone else would lose theirs as well. It was a small price to pay for the next generation.


The sleeping owl huddled in the back of its home inside the tree. The air slowly became thicker and sharper. The owl shifted its feet as the wood around it grew warmer.

Suddenly, the young owl awoke and flew from its roost. Something hot and bright was climbing the tree.

The owl saw that all the trees were covered in the bright stuff, and it tried to escape.

The smoke obscured its sight and choked its breath. Flying too close to a tree, the owl singed its wings. It was still surrounded, and it didn't know to fly to the lake, or to the south, where the town was.

The longer it flew, the less air there was. Finally, it passed out, exhausted, and died.

The Swallows Holiday

"Hey Bob? How's the brood?"
"Fine, thanks for asking, Larry. Hey, it's been awhile. Haven't seen you since-"
"About April."
"Yeah, around April... Well Margaret wanted to extend the nest, and it was a close call to get that done before she layed, and (you know how it is once they hatch) it feels like I did nothing but feed them until they flew off."
"I heard Maggie's still with you guys."
"Yeah. She swears she'll die either of loneliness or eagle food."
"Does she still dye her feathers?"
"I don't know who taught her to be so morbid. Eagle food, indeed."
"It does happen."
"But you don't think about it."
"Is she excited about the migration?"
"She's been threatening to stay and freeze to death."
"I imagine she'd starve before she- *cough* uhm, what do you think of Shawn leading this year?"
"It's always dicey when a youth leads his first migration. They never stop at the old fields, they're way too jittery about predators: sounding the retreat every time a housedog barks. I could lead the flock better then any fledgling on his first flight."
"I bet you could, Bob. Maybe you would have, if you'd have made it to the flock meeting last week."
"I've never liked flock meetings. All the gray fletched getting intoxicated on fermented lightning bugs. Once the crickets are gone, it's hard to stay through all the politiking."
"But it's time for a vacation, eh? I can't wait to get to Costa Rica. Sarah and I have been looking forward to it for about a month, now."
"I'm worried about Maggie even making it there. She spent so much time int he nest, I don't think she has the endurance."
"Looks like she's getting familiar with Shawn over there. I doubt his pace will be too hard on her."

Leaves on Asphalt

There is something amazing about autumn leaves on asphalt.
I look at their curl, bright undersides contrasting with their own pale tops.
There is the hint of a shadow outlining each one, giving them definition.
The soft overcast lighting highlights their brightness while accenting the shadows.
Each leaf, maple, oak, or linden looks purposefully placed.
Each lies deliberately flat or curled, twisted or wrinkled.
I can picture myself staying here, sitting on the asphalt, afraid to disturb perfection,
Staring at this complex wayfare.
I could go blissfully crazy.
And people would point out that mad woman who watches leaves.

Bruegel's Tower of Babel

What would they have done when they finished?
The tower complete, they dust their hands,
Clap each other on the back
...And then what?
Do they all, really, climb eth monstrous staircase each morning,
So they can have dinner with the angels?
Do they move into the rooms near the top and send the children down to earth to get the groceries?
Do they keep their patience as every human on the face of the planet stomps past their front door?
Or do they move out?
Move on,
And become gardeners?