Balsamic Moon, by Rita Feinstein

I told her sometimes I feel like a princess trapped on a potato farm, and she told me to be patient. She told me I have a balsamic moon, and I imagined a bright sliver cupping a bubble of pungent vinegar. She said I’m an old soul, a black sheep, a late bloomer. But I feel like I’ve already bloomed and faded, like my springtime of achievements is behind me. I can’t imagine what will happen when I bloom for real.

She said she’d begun charting the speed of the moon, not just its phase, sign, and house. She said the moon at the time of my birth was moving supersonically fast. I said the doctor had had to catch me like a football. She said my progressed moon is moving slower now, still fast, fast for almost anyone else, but slow for me. Slow like dragging Saturn on a chain through the clumpy, clayey potato field that has become my metaphor for life in Ithaca.

My moon is soft like a croissant. Its flaky pastry tips curl like Cancer crab claws. My moon is self-pitying. My moon expects you to read my mind. My moon gets so choked up on emotions and vinegar it can’t speak. It can’t defend itself. It can’t tell the difference between what I should do and what I want to do.

She said this lifetime is about reclaiming my voice. She said it's okay to feel the emotions as long as I can express them politically. I said I used to shove people off stages so I could perform. I used to freestyle slam poetry with my eyes closed. I used to be loud and brassy and loved for it, and now I’m just insecure and crying all the time. I asked if I’m going backwards. She said you’re not going backwards, you’re going deeper.

I don’t want to blame Ithaca. I have a bad habit of blaming my problems on my city. But I can’t help feeling that in Santa Fe I was loved for who I was, whereas in Ithaca the most I can get is respect for what I do. And what I do is not what needs to be done. I do not pick potatoes. I do not operate heavy farm machinery. I do not roll dying sheep off their own poop onto a fresh bed of straw. I told my boyfriend I want his parents to respect me for who I am, and he said who I am doesn’t even register on their radar.

I have never felt such a frantic need to prove myself to others. Proving myself to myself was always good enough.

I look at my graduation pictures and think, What hope! What promise! I look at my bank account and think summa cum laude won’t buy the groceries.

She said I have a good heart. She said to remember that writing is my gift to the world.

She didn’t answer all my questions. There wasn’t enough time. She recorded our session and put the CD in an orange plastic sleeve. I hugged her and didn’t want to let go. Last time I was in her office, I was sixteen and going through a three-year breakup we called a relationship. She read me a picture book about a dinosaur named Edwina and I cried. She said I was the first in a long line of heartbreaks and I was okay with that. I was happy about it.

Now I’m so concerned about breaking hearts that my own is starting to crack.

All I think about is running away. Even in August, when everything seemed okay, I only wanted to turn into a coyote and disappear into a cornfield and have all my interpersonal doubts consumed by moonlight. Somewhere below the horizon, I feel the moon move a little bit faster.

1st Night in Nepal, by Summer Killian

jet-lagged and high on motorbike fumes,

1st taxi ride survived,

we are waiting to surrender — as one must 

when all needs re-learning, when even 

stars seem an impossibility

(the hundreds of curbside rubbish fires, the wall of smoke

helped banish all thoughts of stars) until 

one night when we'd escaped the city,

when we'd climbed higher and 

could see our breath and 

brian found orion and his belt,

1-2-3

a few saturdays later, 

back on our street in our town

getting in our car 

(which we drive in a straight line and stop at stop signs because they are there

and honk only when grave danger or supreme annoyance overtake us,

where we obey traffic lights that are always working, 

red-yellow-green, 

working even when we are asleep and believe we are safe)

i look up

i see my breath and 

i spot that familiar 1-2-3 of stars

and even though i know it's already morning there — where 

the wool socks hang on the line and the girls toss scoops of water

on the brown dirt, tamping down the dust — 

even though

this night has already happened i 

hope i am not the only one who was looking

Full Moon, October 1968, by Sara Robbins

Full moon, October 1968

couldn't get comfortable —

I crept out of my bedroom

and down the hall to the living room

to turn on the stereo, gently, quietly

WNEW FM "underground radio" from

New York City

Rosko, the DJ, his deep voice purring

the words

"Here's Dave Van Ronk,

Both Sides Now."

And I sat in the near dark —

stereo lights

the glow of the full moon 

coming through 3 large windows

I sat 

holding the full moon of my belly

and I heard the words of the song

Words that reached right into me and

I cried

so quietly

so gratefully

the moon my only witness

The Geese Chasers, by Maureen Owens

You and I, beloved, are fastened

by certain and implicit splendor.

In courtship, we beckoned each other

to inhale the stunning, kiss the earthly,

savor stillness in the day’s swirl.

From across town, you would alert me

to the imminent passing of ribbons

and ribbons of shimmering snow geese,

due to arrive over my house

in the nearly next split-second.

I am still exhilarated to my essence,

years later, when we hear their chorus,

grab the keys and drive to the lake, 

where hundreds, or thousands of them

bring us to our geese-loving knees.

Six Moons, by Diana Kreutzer

moon while walking the dogs —

upturned mouth

smiling over the night

*

I look up often.  But it's the night skies that etch in my memory.

I look up at night while walking the dogs.

I look up comforted by companion moon I have known

all of my life, wherever I go.

How wonderful it would be to have someone

like the moon

who loves you so much

that, despite the familiarity of a lifetime,

stays with you all those years.

*

Alaskan river —

moon lights paths 

on your curving places

*

July moon over mountains

followed us as we drove

to our honeymoon —

it was there we met each other's demons —

we were over by November

*

the moon in Mombasa

watched over us 

as we watched over 

the children 

as they swam

*

in my many homes

moonlight through windows

uninvited

but always welcome

To My Garden, by Susan Lesser

Sleep tight. 

Soon you will yawn and stretch your green shoots upward. 

We will busy ourselves with grooming you and feeding you and tidying up your spaces. 

You will send us gifts of blossoms — pinks and blues and yellows.

And perfumes — sweet and spicy. 

There will be raspberries to pick and eat right there in the garden. 

And vegetables to harvest for late summer dinners.

We will sit sometimes on low chairs on the lawn and think how lucky we are. 

How thankful.

Between the Colors, by Carla DeMello

Before I was born, everything was shades of blue, and after I die everything will be shades of white, but right now it's all the colors. I wish I were a seahorse so I could see the colors between the colors. We can only see millions but they see millions of millions. I want to know what they look like, the colors I can't see. I don't even see the spaces where the millions of unseen colors live. How can more be squeezed in? 

I know! If we name the edges of the ones everyone knows, then maybe we'll catch glimpses of the ones only seahorses can see.

The velvet black of where you go in your deepest sleep.

Teasingly tiny intermittent explosions of silver reflected off scales.

Mocha caramel cream swirl bliss that fills you when you finally let go.

The new grass green of uninhibited wonder.

A new crimson hope for winter tomatoes.

White hot tips of indigo flames, hungry for as much as they can get.

The not quite seen ghostly gray of polka dots' after-image.

Searingly bright minty greens and flamingo shrimpy pinks that make us think of Florida.

The almost audible melody of colors cast on ochre walls by a slowly spinning prism.

See anything yet?

I almost do.

Things I Know, by Anne Van

I know the atmosphere is 78% nitrogen. But it's more than that. I can look up through the troposphere, the stratosphere, the thermosphere. But it's more than that. There is a space around me and above me that I cannot comprehend, and I need snowflakes drifting slowly, or specks of floating dust in a ray of sun, to even begin to think about what is where there isn't.

I know that you are 22 and from Albuquerque, New Mexico. But it's more than that. The posters hung sideways on your wall tell me that you like Andy Warhol, your bookshelf tells me you read big, fat books by famous authors. But it's more than that. You are more than that, but mostly I make you more than that, and I don't know who gave you the right to grow so big and powerful in my mind.

I know that my cat is overweight. But it's more than that. I missed her when I was away, and now I'm back and she is still overweight, possibly more so. Her purr when she bumps her head against my fist still sounds like a little bell, and still makes me smile. But she doesn't let me hold her for long anymore. It's more than that. I don't think she's mine anymore. What else of mine is no longer mine?

I know that tener means "to have" in Spanish. I have furry boots, I have several pairs of my mother's stolen socks, I have mauve toenail polish. But it's more than that. Tengo sed, tengo hambre, tengo miedo, tengo calor. I have thirst, hunger, fear, and hotness. Maybe not right now, but I have them in my collection of certain past and future experiences.

I know that my house is pistachio green. But it's more than that. I know that it was garbanzo-bean colored before pistachio. But it's more than that. It was probably another color before garbanzo, and another before that, and before that, maybe it was no color. Maybe it was a pasture with a cow that was cow-colored. And before that, maybe a forest with many tree-colored trees and creature-colored creatures. At some point, that piece of land on which I was born on a Monday morning probably did not exist. 

I know that my grandmother's ex-boyfriend is the famous author of one of my favorite books. But it's more than that. I know that if they had stayed together a little longer and my grandmother had missed the play at which she met my grandfather, I probably would not exist to read or love that book. 

"All the Places" and "Red Dress," by Sara Robbins

All the Places 

All the places I have been led me here — a house in the woods at the very end of a long dead end.

And what do I see when I look out the window?

Trees and more trees. Some I put there which are special: fruit trees, flowering trees, sheltering wind breaks of pine and oak. Memorial trees planted in honor of dead loved ones — human and pets.

I also see a large pond, now covered with ice and snow, but in warmer months I see ducks and geese, herons and frogs, jumping fish and waterbugs, and pretty little box turtles sunning on the shore.

It's quiet here, the place I landed. Sometimes the neighbors' donkeys bray, the cows moo. Sometimes the coyotes howl and scream; often dogs bark, or geese honk heading north or south. But I hear no city noises. If I hear a car or truck I usually know who is driving. Once in a while I hear the fire siren from the town below. But mostly it's quiet.

The wind whistles through the trees, but that isn't noise. It's music.

Red Dress

I used to wear a red dress that got me in trouble. I was 16. It was short and tight with a pleated skirt and a white lace collar. I wore it with white tights and square-toed patent leather Mary Janes. I would wear this to dances and dance the jerk, the bump, the twist, the mashed potato. But it was the slow dances that really got me into trouble. Dancing too close, too slow. Dancing to the edge of the gym and slipping out the door into the night, running to trouble.

Now I wear black mostly — a tiny splash of red on a scarf or a shirt. I don't even own any dresses anymore, much less a red one. I run the other way now.

Ice Cream // Crazy: Two Lists, by Barbara Cartwright

Ice Cream 

Flavors I like . . .

sea salt caramel

apple macaroon studded with toasted pine nuts

pomegranate sorbet filled with candied ginger and zested tangerine strips

pernod and fennel granita (provided it is served as a palate cleanser and not as a dessert)

mapled walnuts alternating with chocolate espresso beans and coconut chips

Flavors I don't like . . .

woody peach served with a lemon pledge spritzing

kale pistachio

liver wellington ice

dirty fish fumet with crushed shellfish

dill ripple, anchovy and nigella seed surprise

Some Things That Drive Me Crazy

cupboards left open, lights left on

radio waves that vacillate around their station signal, unable to commit

stains that are nothing if not stubborn

problems without solutions

things that stay lost, even though we all know they're just hiding

nothing to do

too much to get done

people who think bacteria has an attitude

mis-matched socks

anyone who pauses just because they can

the word "no"

the words "no" "thank" "you"

silence where I should be hearing "you're welcome" 

things that never change

grey days, damp nights

rain that is so light it seems without intension

dogs who won't listen to me; cats who ignore me

all snakes, domesticated or wild, because let's face it: snakes are incapable of being domesticated

the acrid smell released by molested millipedes

people who say "just a second" and really mean "never" 

outdated magazines in the doctors office

any movie involving the devil or witchcraft

certain people, in my past, who will go nameless

I am NOT Thinking About These Things, a collective list

On Wednesday afternoon, January 9, 2013, in the Word/Play workshop that meets at my studio, nine young writers spent ten minutes creating a collective list of things they were NOT going to think about for the next couple of hours. Here it is:

potato bugs

ear lobes

my mom's hair

peanuts

windows

mealy month-old apple slices

basketball

bad things

figures appearing out of mist/fog/shadows

homework

puffball mushrooms

fuchsia ducks with little bells on their tails

anchovies

cotton candy

raw tomatoes going swish

socks

dictionaries

tap dancing

Vikings

the sound a zipper makes

Peter Pan

locked boxes

horses

rain

tea

Doctor Who

worms

sorcery

things that fold in order to become easier to carry

gingerbread houses

how much I want to be watching Star Trek

the fact that it is not Friday

how much I have to read

how late it's already getting

chocolate cheesecake

cocoa-dusted truffles

chocolate eclairs

chocolate mousse 

Kit Kats

Nutella

Turkish delight (with chocolate)

Snickers 

Twix

chocolate cookies

all the ways to keep my hair from collapsing tomorrow

all the ways I could make money disappear

things that were true long ago

belt buckles

whatever else was in the pool water

being nearly an adult

the color red

pawnbrokers

cars approaching each other at varying speeds

how to make perfume

the sound of someone filing their nails

running a marathon

the importance of handwriting

the benefits of different sizes of whisks

subterranean oil reserves

writing another villanina (sestina combined with a villanelle)

what I have to do tomorrow

you

pink elephants with green umbrellas

the phone ringing — is it you?

appendicitis

The Picture of Dorian Gray and/or Oscar Wilde

saying goodbye to the Christmas tree

THANK YOU:

Ana Luisa Brady-McCullough

Seraphina Buckholtz 

Karina Burbank

Amanda Coate

Rachel Frank

Sophia Hiller

WeiWei Luo 

Rose Pinnisi

Phoebe Shalloway

Long Distance, by Susan Lesser

You have reached 607-555-5555. We are not able to come to the phone right now. Please leave a message. If you happen to be the traveling spouse or father of anyone living at this number and who has been visiting/working in faraway places for the past few weeks, the following options are available. Please listen carefully.

To discover how long Susan and Jordan had to wait in the emergency room before anyone could get around to setting Jordan’s broken arm, press 1.

Five hours and 29 minutes

(They were quick to take x-rays but it was another two hours and 52 minutes before anything else happened. The harried doctor in the green hospital garb with a bloody smear on the sleeve said, “The x-rays indicate a greenstick fracture of the right forearm.” No surprise there. It took two hours and seven minutes more before we left. Andrew had dinner for us when we came home—spaghetti. I was grateful.  Jordan ate very little and is asleep now. It is late, almost midnight. I have to be at work at eight in the morning. I feel like sleeping on the floor beside his bed, like I sometimes did when he was very small and sick. I wish you were here.)

To learn how much the new water heater cost after the old one dropped dead, press 2.

$469.00, plus tax and installation

(No showers for two days! We heated water in the kettle on the stove to wash the dishes and for a while, it was fun, like summer camping. But hot water is a habit we take for granted. I don’t know if it qualifies as being spoiled, but we were all relieved to put a hand under the faucet and feel the warm liquid spill over our fingers. We drew straws to see who would get the first shower. Andrew won; I was next. I hope you will approve of this purchase. It is not something I buy often.) 

To find out if Andrew is passing 2nd year German, press 3.

He’s not.

(He neglected to hand in over half the homework assignments. If he goes to special study sessions he can recoup some of the credit before he has mid-terms. I will have to pick him up at 4:45 each afternoon for the next two weeks. If you were here, you would do it. Wouldn’t you?)

For an accurate account of how many feet of snow have been shoveled from the driveway since you left, press 4.

Three feet five and a half inches. 

This information will be updated daily.

(I usually go out to get the morning paper first thing after I start the coffee. Andrew and Jordan are still asleep and I have a half an hour before I wake them and start the day for real. My boots imprint the new snow already pathmarked by ambitious squirrels. I can tell if the day is very cold by the squeak of the snow as I set my foot down. The snow catches tiny shards of early sunlight and the world is brand new again and silent. I think of winter as cold and white, but when I stand out in its circle, it is the stark silence that I notice. Inside again, I check the headlines, take a sip of coffee from the mug we brought from Switzerland, and tally up how many more days before you come home.)

For an idea of how much Susan’s new winter coat cost, press 5. 

It was on sale. That’s all you need to know

(It is a lovely soft gray woolen coat with an over-size collar and deep cuffs. The hat, scarf and gloves were extra, but the blue goes with my eyes and the salesgirl thought they were just perfect. I hope you like it. Maybe we can go out to dinner at Madeleine’s when you come home. I could order scallops and wear my new coat. Should I get a dress too?)

To find out how much dental work for the cat, Iris, will cost, press 6.

$180.00, more if they need to do an extraction

(I’m having trouble with this. We’re talking about a cat. Lots of children don’t have this kind of money put out for their dental care. I have come up with a rationalization—Iris is 15 years old so the true cost only is $12.00 a year. Besides Iris is a fine companion. On these cold nights she curls up just behind my knees and her gentle purr when I move even slightly reminds me of the happy facility she has for appreciating the little things.)

To discover how long it takes to mop up an entire gallon of milk that was dropped on the floor when Susan was making pancakes for seven boys who had come for Jordan's 13th birthday sleep-over, press 7.

Only 7 minutes, 3 bath towels and about a half a roll of paper towels

(The milk was not a big problem, but your absence on this birthday was keenly felt. Our children are both teenagers now. The baby, little boy days are gone.)

To find out how it happened that Brenda, our next-door-neighbor of Glenn-and-Brenda, ran off with the pastor from the First Methodist Church of Miltonburg, press 8.

It’s a long story

(I met Glenn in the grocery store and right there in front of the broccoli display he started telling the tale. The pastor and she read poetry together and they take long walks in the woods. She likes that. She likes it more than she likes Glenn or their home with their three children. He has known her since she was 17 and he was 18. “I don’t know who she is,” he says. “I like poetry too.” She has moved out; the pastor has been removed from his church.  Glenn has the children. He says he never had a clue. There’s a lot more. We can talk when you get home.)

For the menu of the Welcome Home Dinner we are planning for your return, press 9.

Champagne (or Cokes)

Assorted Cheese Platter

(definitely with Brie)

Standing Rib Roast (even though it is not Christmas Dinner)

Beets with Orange Sauce (because beets are your favorite)

Roast New Potatoes

Green Salad with Artichokes Vinaigrette (!!)

Mousse au Chocolat

(Andrew and Jordan are making the dessert. We already have the ingredients.)

To repeat these options, press 10.