Blizzard

Snow sparkling on the ground under the street light; shins hidden in snow drifts; heavy wind made visible by dense white flurries. Frightened (my mom always told me not to go out in below-zero temperatures; not to traipse around when the wind is roaring at more 20 mph), I venture out: face covered, feet booted, fingers mittened.

Unlike in my hometown in the southern Midwest—where the world stops at the sight of sticking snow; stops when the wind-chill drops below zero (the children will freeze, after all); where slippers go on, chili stews in its pot, fire dances warmth through the house; where sedentary muscles melt into house arrest, beer and videos entertain—in urban Boston, people venture out. They brave the elements; use their quadriceps to lift heavy boots, one step at a time, out of the snow.

At some point in the maturation process, one needs to re-evaluate childhood lessons. Most of this happens as a classic coming of age story during adolescence, e.g.: “Stand By Me,” "Catcher in the Rye". Yet some remnants remain through early adulthood, most based in a deeply ingrained fear: don’t dive off high cliffs into rivers; don’t leave the toaster plugged in; don’t venture out in a blizzard.

While my mom is usually right (especially when it comes to relationships and homemade medical remedies—like flat Coke for a stomach ache, including that which accompanies a hangover), her nurturing, overly-protective, biological instincts have left me with various unnecessary fears. Untangling the unnecessary and absurd from the rational can take years, decades really.

Last night, I dared to untangle. While debating whether to leave my apartment, cross the Charles into Cambridge for a dinner party or to lie snuggled on my couch, watching movies, it occurred to me that I have canoed against 30 mph winds. If I could canoe under such conditions for hours, days, in fact, I could probably walk. It was an epiphany. I bundled up in layers, putting on the same rain pants that keep me dry while canoeing, and headed out.

What I learned on this cross-city adventure was that maneuvering through blizzard-like conditions is a bit different than canoeing. When paddling, you want the bow of the canoe to cut into the wake at about a 75 degree angle. Essentially, slicing the wind head-on; slicing the waves. A 45 degree angle would mean guaranteed tipping; 90 degrees, a stand-still. This ideal angle still grates on your shoulders, on your biceps; you still feel lactic acid crawling under your skin. Yet it is significantly easier, and at least you move forward, at least you progress.

Walking, however, is extremely unpleasant at 75 degrees. In fact, it’s unpleasant at all angles; the wind, sharp and cold, slices you. Thus, one can only pray (and since I’m an atheist, this only gets you so far) for a tailwind.

I enjoyed my adventure, though. The air was chaotic, almost violent, yet quiet and prestine. The ground was mysterious, yet soft and as shinny as a sequenced dress.

I smiled, surprised.

Pruning

There is something compelling about pruning plants. I discovered this a couple of years ago when I moved into an apartment that had a dying plant abandoned on the porch. It looked dead: it had four semi-alive brown, drooping leaves, a tangled mess of dead ones and vines so parched and brittle that they snapped at my touch.

But I was hopeful. I gave it a bit of water and slowly, carefully, picked the dead leaves off of the maybe-alive vines; snapped the brittle vines away from the maybe-alive ones. It took time to peel back the snarl, but as I created space in the pot, I discovered under the tangled mess a couple of struggling green babies curled, out of fear, into the fetal position. I opened the world for them: unwrapped the umbilical cord from around their necks; offered security; showed them the sky.

But the most satisfying part of pruning is not clearing space; it's snapping the dead leaves off of their vine, opening a pore from which a new bud can emerge. It simply amazes me that by burying the dead, you create life.

My plant is beautiful now, explosive really. Its leaves are the size of my hands; they have crayon green edges with spring green veins; they spill out of their 14" pot.

I find pruning to be so satisfying that once I stopped dead, in the middle of making out with someone, to prune my favorite house plant. It couldn't wait; it demanded my attention.

So, for those of you seeking hope, I recommend that you prune your plants regularly.

A Cactus in Spring

One hand down between
my legs, the other upturned
on my sheet: I am dry inside,

and think of cactus. But it,
split open, leaks honey. I am

already split, my flesh: a brittle
red petal, clinging onto
unsweetened skin.

Drought

My mom called today to tell me that there were no more avocados in Texas. The rain hadn’t come for months and months, and Papa’s garden was brown instead of red. She cried as she told me that we could no longer have Cita’s guacamole, that the tomatoes and onions were gone, too.

I remember one hot day when the humidity made the air thick with a sticky film. It was saturated and you knew the rain would come soon to flood the streets so that we could drive along and spray the car clean. Mom made me leave the cool house for the beach, an hour away in the pickup without air.

We went and it was hot. We came back and I was salty and sticky and my clothes clung to my skin. Papa came out of the house, his eyebrows taut like his weathered hands. He stood in his garden next to the cucumbers and the chain-linked fence and grabbed my hand. He looked up at the sky. It was time for the rain again.

Spill

The moon hung from the sky tonight. Upside down. Someone must have tipped it over like a glass of red wine. It wasn’t stained though. Not the way wine stains clothes and carpets and books. I felt guilty when I stained those books. I would guess that my face turned as red as the wine. But I couldn’t say so. I laughed instead.

I did not knock over the moon. I did not knock over the moon. I did not knock over the moon. I did knock over the wine and I am sorry.

M-I-Crooked Letter-Crooked Letter

1 Mississippi,
2 Mississippi,
3 Mississippi—
my turn to drink

the water that flows
out of the rusty spout,
brown, like the color
of mud telling a story
between the winding
ridges of land, sweeping
the sides clean and smooth.

The rocking between floods
and droughts exposes
a jungle of roots to the sun,
drowning them in light, then
hiding them in them same water
that counts time passing
as land goes by.

Lost Subtleties

These days gulps are taken,
large bites of rich and saturated
food; round and full
like breasts, curved to fall
onto the palate, precisely; heavy
and dense like sweat,

expected. The slight caress
of a sip of Jasmine is almost
lost, is almost anonymous, is
almost like the touch of a stranger’s
finger on a bare elbow.

Half-Slip

My black half-slip clung to my thighs
holding my legs together
against the weight of the water.

I wanted to catch them, swim freely
after them, or with them. But not stay
still. I was supposed to stay still.
Not try. Stay still.

I kicked hard inside my slip
but went under
instead of forward. My pulse hurried
I stayed still.

A Thousand Paper Cranes

Children fold paper
inside out, showing
adults how to crease
angles into life.

They align diagonals
with diagonals, matching
the leftover scraps
of a long, cold weekend:

newspapers, brown paper bags,
yesterday's homework wait
for a miracle,
for lines to form

a neck arching towards the sun,
mouth puckered
to taste the colors of bent rays
falling through time

until dust shatters
as the bomb explodes,
dropping pieces of gray ash
to annihilate:

what was there now
isn’t, is nothing
but white space
strung together by a small girl.