jillypoet: mom trying to write

Each day I wish I had invented waterproof sticky notes (for shower inspiration) or pen-friendly diapers to get down all my quirky thoughts that I am sure are relevant and publishable. And so God (actually another writer-mommy) sent me The Blog.

Saturday, July 22, 2006

New Jill Meet Old Jill

Will the irony never end? After last night's treatise on marriage and synchronicity, the universe has offered up yet another mystery. Or at least something to think about.

We were just settled in to watch Fun With Dick and Jane (pass the irony please), when I felt the urge to show D. the new trout fishing and the writing life memoir I bought. If you show your husband a fishing book, you're going to remember the essay you wrote 10 million years ago about how you learned to fish at the hands of many different men. If you remember the essay, you're going to want to search the very old disk that you think it's saved on to try and find the essay. If you find the disk, you're going to have to go to the basement to test it out on your computer. And so on (If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, anyone?) until here you are, 1 hour later, discovering just how clever you were 12 years ago, waaaay before you would have even considered marriage--except maybe as a prerequisite for the people you nannied for.

Nevertheless, to continue on with irony... a poem from my very single, very feminist past.

For the Dancing Mermaid: A Wedding Song

I am silver rings and bangle bracelets etched
with fire. I am blue jeans, brown boots and red,
red lips that will not part.
Do you hear me?

I am long blond hair. I am short red curls,
and I can move. I am pierced hoops and
brass buttons, but I do not shine.
I will not be lacquered, frozen or splayed.
Can you see me?

In the wind I am the scent of
one hundred heathers, dozens of dahlias
and one violet iris. I am the
bouquet your mother warned you about.
Will you breathe my scent?

One hundred years ago I was
the prairie dust in your eyes, in
your pores. I stuck to your skin.
Do you feel me?

I am blue eyes, white tears and a
wad of crumpled kleenex wedged in
your pocket. I am lost deep inside.
Can you find me?

I am the rasping voice of
your dreams. My sound scratches
you in the night, slices you like
the sliver of a winter moon.
I am your experience.
Will you have me?


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