How To Soften Your Hands

I would wash dishes until my skin peeled off in ragged rinds
if only my plates and bowls would squeak,
you are happily married.

..........The husband shovels tunnels around
..........the shuttered house
..........waiting to be rid of the hungry horde.

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I wrote this in response to Carolee's poem which she wrote after we played with Anne Sexton's poem Her Kind. It's sort of a letter poem.

Process note: I wrote it first without the snow and the husband, and ended with the pretty bowl. The husband wormed his way in. Should he stay?

I forgot how much I love Anne Sexton

My last post of 2008. No sniffs. No sighs. I'm looking forward to a new year, a fresh start. All those blank calendar pages, blank journal pages, poetry books waiting to be read...

I had a very productive last day of the year. Sent in two submissions (in by the skin of my neck!), and collaborative ones with Carolee at that. Hooray for us!

To top it off, we were both inspired by a rare video of Anne Sexton reading (see it here), so we started a new collaborative piece, using five phrases from Sexton's Her Kind. Next, we each wrote five sentences using those phrases, then wrote a poem blending the phrases. Mine follows...


The Eskimo Word for Woman is Abnaq

Too many people think they know
what is and what is not a woman.

Lonely thing (that woman)
walking with a blanket round her head.

My grandmother (that woman) fixed the suppers
--no one helped her clean up.

Jesus fixed the suppers while the women
(that woman) washed the dishes.

Pummeled by flakes, she is not a woman
but another word for snow.

At night, dreaming, she is a cat
with no kittens, teats full and glossy.

If you still bite after all these years,
consider yourself happily married.

I sweat sometimes at night, dreaming of a new body
(that woman) to wrap my skin around.

Do you still bite your lip when you think about me (that woman)?