Rogue Homilies by Deidre Price

a study of life that smacks of the divine

Month: April 2015

A Good Friday Reflection from a Mother to a Mother

Blood Moon

I hold my son closer on Good Friday,
the day another mother could not hold her own.

I cut crusts from turkey sandwiches,
send him off for a preschool party
where he will find plastic eggs and joy in grass.

Another mother stands in sand,
sees her son given over to death
for three hundred dollars by a friend.

My son’s friends say goodbye
with hugs in hallways
near Resurrection signs in construction paper.

But today another mother grieves
sweat and blood and breath,
sees him thirst.

My son thirsts, too, and I pass a cup
he fills with crushed ice and pure water.
He drinks in peace.

This other mother’s son dies in front of her
as she hears the words, “It is finished.”

Still a blood moon comes tonight
and I keep holding my son closer,
the day another mother could not hold her own.

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Do I Bother You Like Plexus? – #NPM15

I try not to talk about my weight
in the same way I try not to talk
about my children at work.

But I’ve become the elephant in the room,
conspicuous as a Cheerio stuck to my sleeve,
the constant yogurt on my shoulder.

Weight is easier to carry than pictures of my children.
I lose one and keep the other.
I bore easily at “my, they’ve grown.”
“My, you’ve grown” lives only in texts and whispers.

But online…

Online the potion peddlers find me,
give themselves away in Drink Pink! hashtaggery
hidden in sentences that wind
like country roads.

Online they tell me to Think!
But would you believe I work better with a little clutter?
And I’ve been thin before, so it’s nothing novel.

Online they meme away,
testify revival-tent-style,
selling something that will save us all.

But we all preach a little Plexus
with our causes and elbows we serve at the dinner table,
from Namaste to Obama,
War Eagle to Who Dat?
All cheers and jeers form alphabet soup
that stoops lower than the Tide sometimes.

I post poems like written saviors.
I say, “You can start today!
Everyone starts somewhere!
Ask me how!”

I share stories that aren’t mine
so you can see yourself in them,
at first before, then one day after
and you, the literary paper doll,
a living Mad Lib.

Take this sole solace:
At least there’s only one of me.

This poem was written as part of a poem-a-day challenge for National Poetry Month! Write your own and tag #npm15. And leave comments in response! I’d love to hear from you.

Remember that the poems that appear as part of this challenge are dirty drafts; they may change with each visit to the site.

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Dirty Apples and the Friends Who Eat Them – #NPM15

She wasn’t scared when I inquired about the state of her apples,

red and suspicious instead of delicious,

looking as though they’d been painted to look like mimes,

then wiped clean by a lazy person who may have mumbled,

“oil based” and “impossible,”

my go-to words for laundry and for art.

 

She said, “I soaked them in vinegar,

heard ten minutes does the trick.

So I soaked them all night.”

 

The wax gave up and fell,

dried back in new formations.

I swore I could see Dali’s clock on one,

sheet music on another,

a coffee mermaid,

Nietzsche’s moustache,

Doc McStuffins,

math and eggs,

little apples on the apples.

 

“Peel them!” I said and then waxed on

about big cancer counts in Washington,

how the peel’s the worst part.

I talked dirty dozens and pesticide hauntings,

whispering Monsanto.

 

“But the fiber!”

“Get organic!”

 

Another friend made a shoe shine motion on her thigh,

said she doesn’t wash them, just brushes them off knowingly—

like a Disney stepmother who’s already put poison inside.

 

“We just grab them off the counter.”

 

My mind limped back through all their kitchens,

IKEA bowls and see-through drawers.

 

Fear drove my worry to Washington and back,

mulling over seeds and stems, cores and flesh—

so many stovetop ciders—

 

the cold kind of fear that’ll find me faster than

any apple cancer can.

 

This poem was written as part of a poem-a-day challenge for National Poetry Month! Write your own and tag #npm15. And leave comments in response! I’d love to hear from you.

The poems that appear as part of this challenge are dirty drafts; they may change with each visit to the site. See you tomorrow!

xoxo,

Deidre, poet in progress

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