“My Life as a Minister” (wedding poem) (mine).

My Life as a Minister

(for Kathryn & Andy)

 

To say “You may now kiss the bride”

is a treasure far beyond

most treasures I’ve known.

A treasure of love (my bests,

 

my only kind of treasures),

a treasure built of words (my tools),

a treasure said in public

in the presence of a trove

 

of dearest friends—

a treasure known by all, the words

learned early on, the script, that scripture,

holy words of matrimony, most of which

 

I banished from the ceremony. But not

those words, and not the kiss

which with light within me

I gave permission for.

 

You may now and you may always

and may you for all the days

kiss and kiss and kiss

the bride.

***

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A day in the life of someone else’s farm (photos).

In which I spend time with superb ladies, learn about “nature names,” drink beer for dinner, watch the last nub of sun hit a land I may someday live on, stare into the red red eyes of a rabbit, play with chicks with good hairstyles, sleep three to a bed, wake up just past dawn to milk a cow and a goat for the first time, drink muchly-creamed coffee, eat purple potatoes for every meal, meet three stout sheep…and enjoy myself outrageously.

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(All photos taken  by me at Kate & Nick’s beautifulheavenlyanimalfilled farm.)

The past month or so in photographs.

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This is one of the farms that will not be our home.

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This was at the farmers’ market in Montpelier, when Ellie was visiting, and we met up with Kenzie, who is also a Suzie’s Farm Person, and she had those long fabulous dreadlocks.

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This was when Ellie and Scott and Josh were staying over. I made Misha wear my happy wreath because he was happy, too. And we drank that whole bottle of bourbon. And life was sweet and Scott jumped in the pond and Josh ended up getting a free Suzie’s Farm hat.

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This is my favorite photo of my friend Andrew, because the sun is all up in his face.

IMG_0122Those ladies? Oh those are my ladies.

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These are some bodacious poppies and some pretty Unidentified Other Flowers that grow beneath the grapes in front of our house.

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This is another farm which we won’t live on. But boy, was it pretty.

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This is my pen pal, Shannon. She’s even better in person than written. Plus, she’s married! Also, a poet!

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This was the fourth of July. Misha didn’t even mean to wear red white and blue and we had sausages for dinner.

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This is Misha with flowering mullein on Cape Cod. He really loves that plant. And in this photograph, he even matches it!

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This is my family in the early 90s. I don’t think I’ll ever be as baller as I was that day on Cape Cod, with that stance and that minnow net and that belly-bearing bathing suit. Also: how cute is my sister. Also also: notice how all our bathing suits match!

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This was leaving the Cape just today, admiring the font of the Sagamore Bridge, admiring structure.

Love & friends & verklempt (something in prose).

I don’t think I’m a poet of the atrocities, or even of the victories. I think I’m a poet of the people I love. I’m trying to make sense of how much there is to love in the world. I’m trying to put into words the moment when someone reaches out to touch someone else’s face, but then doesn’t, and then that person never knows that that other person wanted to touch them. And so that touch will never be in the history books. But I might just get it into a poem.

 

Do you have any famous friends? Friends who people know because of something they did or wrote? I have a couple of great friends in a band and it makes me insanely proud and insanely baffled to know them and to see them progressing in the music world and to know that they are an entity outside of the dudes that I got to know in college. And to think that I knew them in a dorm hallway, with their morning hair and their late night gaits. How I’d leave the coed bathroom when I’d see one of them with their sneakers facing outward in a stall (pooping!). 

 

I have a lot of friends who really impress me. Not just because of their jobs, but sometimes because of their jobs. I have some friends who were born knowing how to be great friends. A lot of my friends aren’t the same as each other. A couple of my friends are attempting similar back-to-the-land plans as I am, but most of them aren’t. I’m here as a human and as a girl and as a poet and as a farmer-in-training to say: my friends, I love the shit out of you. I know you know it already, maybe because I told you recently in an email or textual exclamation or maybe I sent you something recently or maybe you read a poem here that reminded you of it. Either way, I might as well say it often, because life is short and fast (especially in summer).

 

So here’s a music video that really impresses me featuring some dudes I know. For some reason this video is making me want to hug people (BAD), probably because I’ve been drinking wine and I live with a man I adore and because it’s summer and there’s quite nearly enough sunlight to provide for all the words I want to write and say each day. Amen.

 

“How happy the day” (poem) (mine).

How happy the day:

 

the woodstove creaking with heat,

a mix of beans bubbling on the stove,

the new-again president taking one last look at the crowd,

the single chickadee landing on a grapevine,

new paperwhites greening upward,

a pile of sage drying on a tray,

a beeswax candle burning slow,

and my two friends engaged to be married.

 

Joyful poem of New York City (mine).

 

Scott in the Guggenheim’s whorl

stared at a Picasso with both eyes

forward, said to me “I see the Eiffel

tower, a saxophone and some boobs

on a plate.” We laughed in the museum

and got in trouble for photographs

and got kicked out a closing time

and talked right up to the stop

where we split off from each other

in the underground undergrime

of the subway. I zoomed to Kathryn

with her foster dog who did not

love me but he loved my thigh

and dinner at a tiny restaurant

where we cried in the moment

in between dinner and dessert

when the cook in the kitchen

right behind us began slicing

tomorrow’s onions. Eyedrops

and overdue birthday presents,

hummus scooped around, wine

and wine and a whiskey, a bouquet

and a beer and asleep in Sam’s

bed with the lock fully bolted.

And so much to eat every day,

scalloped potatoes by Kath

in the sweet lowdown space

where she’s made her small home.

And Andy so tall that we hug

like a tree and a sapling. And Max

even taller, so full of face that I’ve missed

since last winter in Bushwick when

the cabs were all taken. Awe of piled

trash on every street, awe of the ease

of jokes and jingles made around a small

wooden table. Only three tiny pills

twice a day for Sam. Schiele for free

in a gallery uptown. The subway running

as if the storm never blew. Sean lives

with Scott and they’re both my true

friends. Poems and lentils and The Strand

and more whiskey. Running down 12th

like a bat outta barn. Coffee in mugs

and coffee to go. Dancing in honor

of a liver restored. And back on the bus

to my home in the country, fat to the gills

on signage, on sweetness.