October 24, 2009

Last night, around 10pm, you woke a little from your slumber and started to fuss. Not the full throaty cries of pure anguish but the chortles of dissatisfaction that often build up into a full force fuss. So I got out of bed and walked over to where you lay (in the Moses basket in the Pack N Play) and stood next to you. Your eyes had the look of someone who has been squinting through Venetian blinds too long, but you saw me. And you looked. And you grew quiet. And then slowly, slowly, you closed your eyes again. And you slept. And my heart broke.

To know that it is no longer just my breast that interests you, but my whole being, this whole human self, that it can bring comfort to you, dressed in fleece pants and an old marathon shirt, without speaking or touching you, just the sight of me, oh Thisbe, it broke my heart.

Meanwhile, the world is dying. Storms where there should be drought and drought where there should be storms. Leaves falling green before they're ready. Warmed water slowly licking back the ice. Snow dusting the pumpkins long before carving. Most of the time, I don't think about it. Not until it touches me. This is a horrible way to be. Your great-uncle Paul has dedicated all his time and energy to ending climate change. Well, that and frisbee-related activities. Anyway, today I contributed 3.5 lines of poetry to a project that is trying to post lines from 350 writers by midnight tonight (because today is the International Day of Climate Action). Here's what I wrote:

when you say body of water

you mean containment, here

we mean the way the groaning

breaks.

Today is sunny and the red leaves are wet. Luxy happy bounding through the tall brown grass, seeking pheasants to flush. You, pressed to me below Daddy's down coat, and he and me walking, not touching, but no callouses in the air between us.