The Blue Pitcher

that which may be filled and emptied

Month: October, 2009

Why I Subscribe to the Listserve (Ex. 1)

Hello all,

I have inherited a quaker parrot. (Unbelievable story). The bird has became very attached to me and craves attention. So much so, that I can’t give it all the love it deserves. In the process of keeping him, I purchased a beautiful med-large cage. It’s powder dye (so it doesn’t chip), a nice gray blue and on wheels. (Bought for $350; an impulse buy,wanted him to have the best)
I am selling both for $300 or best offer to a good home. I want to make sure that he goes to someone who has time to spend with him. training, etc. He is very smart and is talking. (he says goodbye when I leave. so sweet).

Please let me know if you are interested or if you want me to send some pics


Subway Poem 6

Seeing Eva on the sonogram last year
Her spine so strong and perfectly curled
She looked like a seahorse

Now she waves at me from the window
As I leave for the train,
Checking my pockets
Again and again
For all I might have forgotten

It was easier when I carried her in me–
The seahorse, the sea–
Easier to understand how to be

Subway Poem 5

A single escaped flower
Biding its time before rush hour
Still uncrushed

Subway Poem 4

I wonder if you enjoyed your lunch today; if you left your paper at your desk and carried your sandwich–perfect in its plastic case–down to the courtyard; if the sun glinted off the foil as you unwrapped it; if, perhaps, unwrapping it, you found a Post-it that your lover had scrawled. Thinking of you, it read, in her knowable hand, then x’s and o’s, and your teeth sinking into the bread, and the wind, o wild fall wind. Soon she’ll pull out that old blue scarf again.

Subway Poem 3

The sun’s on its way down
And the whole town’s
Gone underground

Waiting for the train
Can hardly remember
This morning’s rain

Down here, we’re all so close
Your breath on my neck
My breath on her sleeve

Down here, it doesn’t matter
That hours ago
I left my umbrella in some room

Doesn’t matter who I miss
Or what I crave

Doesn’t matter if you’ve got on
Gold peep-toes
Or a shiny yellow slicker

’cause down here
We’re not going anywhere
But home

Day 319

O Eva Jane, it seems you’re not a bird anymore. Or maybe you’re still a bit of a bird, but then equal parts wind and girl and sunshine and laughter. Already, it’s hard to remember how you felt in my arms when you were first born, hard to imagine how my mind occupied itself all those years before you came. Your cry is no longer a seagull’s squawk; it’s become its own thing entirely, become you. 319 days on earth, and now fall is here. You’re going to love its leaves and its breezes; and it–like everything that has ever come to know you–is going to love you too.

Subway Poem 2

Night was a crocus
Now day
Slick and shiny
And miles away

I keep thinking
Someone will use
All this space to dance

The woman beside me
Smells like hair gel and syrup
And I can feel a mamba
In the knock of her elbow on mine

And you, sir, across from me
With those fancy black lace-ups,
You want to dance too, don’t you?

And the whole train says…
5, 6, 7, 8
Let’s all dance
Don’t mind if we’re late!

Subway Poem

I’m between three women
Talking Chinese
And I’m acting like
I don’t understand
Because I don’t understand
The ads, those boots,
This man reading the bible
With his dry cleaning
On the pole
Rocking back and forth
Rocking like a treetop baby
And no one’s singing
On this train
No one’s begging or dreaming
At least not outloud
I’ve got nothing today
Not even a cup of coffee

Just got these shoes
And something knocking
The back of my heart
Something that feels
Like a song
Something that feels
Like it’s been too long

The Teacher Looks Up from her Stack of Papers

It seems strange to me that after all these falls and springs I still haven’t gotten used to how cyclical the world is. I spent the day at home reading student drafts; my feet were cold because I haven’t dug out last year’s socks, and I worried I’d never have time to write again, and I worried Eva would never nap again. It’s this sort of hyperbolic un-contextualized thinking that gets me in roar in my comments to my students. You must expand your thinking about [a given moment], I write in the margins, underlining must, decorating the whole thing with exclamation marks. Step outside of yourself! I say. I’m glad they never call me on it, never yell, When was the last time you stepped outside of yourself, woman?

[The teacher looks down sheepishly, exits stage left.]