Passover, Night 1: and with not those who show up, then with whom?
oh and what i didn’t tell you about tonight’s improvised seder,
how i pulled together the ritual foods from the cupboards:
habanero hot sauce
some limp-nearly-dead kale from the bottom of the veggie drawer, revived with salt water
a hardboiled egg with a monster face drawn on it in sharpie
molasses (which looks EXACTLY like date syrup, how have i not seen that before)
half a lemon (we had no oranges)
a half-jar full of the crappy olives she thinks makes martinis taste bad and have been living in the back of the fridge
my box of matzah
how we sat around the table
and I was the only one who knew the words,
but they gamely beat each other with the leftover kale
while I sang Dayenu
and how they asked questions,
questions like a seder was built to answer,
and how we used four different Haggadot,
but somehow stayed on the same page
on having sex in a house full of roommates and terrible insulation
the conch of your mouth
against my ear
giving me the echo
of your own
3/30 April ’14
April 3, 2014 at 9:31am
(a collaborative poem by me and google)
young people working together
young people reject dairy products
young people interested in electronics
young people today is better than young people before
young people children and the elderly in urban poverty in Ghana
young people’s guide to the orchestra
young people’s heroes
young people having fun on the beach
young people reject urban poverty products
young people guide the heroes on the beach
young people today working in elderly
young people is better together
young people’s elderly heroes
young people’s children having dairy
young people’s orchestra guide to electronics
2/30 April ’14
April 2, 2014 at 7:45pm
let’s build a monster trap.
you get the shovel, and I’ll
find the thinnest story you ever used
to get me to take you back,
and I will lay it over the skylight.
let’s leave a map nailed to the tree.
let’s write it on human skin.
let’s put a big juicy X next to the spot
you once told me I’d look better
without a mustache.
when we find it, squirming
within our reach, its tentacles and fur
and hands with too many fingers reaching up
through the vapor,
it’s my problem, now.
Caelan Tree, current student in my beloved MFA in Poetry and Poetry in Translation program at Drew, has taken up the NaPoWriMo challenge and is blogging at: tethered here, breathakingly awkward and alive
1/30 April ’14
April 1, 2014 at 11:40am
In childhood, the war is never won;
the basement walls are plastered, leaky wounds,
a damp place to rest your June-baked body, leaning
into the concrete, cold as a kind hand on a fever.
Every exit, an escape or a banishment; your fingernails,
grime and gouge.
Your body is an English pea vine,
in the dark of the second grade coatroom.
You live in mutter and howl, on the wrong sideof every clothesline;
you brandish yourselflike a new jacknife,
like you belong to the heat that forged you.
You are arch and bend, always looking at stubble. You are
the top of the stairs, the second chapter, the breath
before the jump.