The Poetry Marathon

The brightest tomatoes
are lined up on the windowsill
ready for parboiling, and
putting up into Mason jars.
A raincoat drips in the hallway
while steam gathers in the kitchen.

The children are hollering
and running through the house,
while the woman’s elbows bend
to the quiet rhythm of her work.

The frogs at dusk groan deeply
this time of the year. They discuss
the mystery of winter mud,
and the slow approach of renewal.

In quantum physics, unitarity is a restriction
on the allowed evolution of quantum systems
that ensures the sum of probabilities
of all possible outcomes
of any event always equals one.

It is known in the physical world
that certain aspects
can exhibit themselves
in more than one place
at the same time.
Any young mother knows that,
since that’s how she picks up
the kids at soccer practice,
and gets the groceries,
and takes a much needed rest
all at the same time.

Newton’s first law: Every object will remain at rest
or in uniform motion in a straight line
unless compelled to change its state
by the action of an external force.

The external forces of a mother
are efficient and done before
you know it. The first section
of Newton’s first law of motion
clearly exemplifies that. Any mother
can remain at rest because she needs
that rest, and cannot be compelled
to move by any external force.

She, therefore, must divide herself,
breaking the rule of unitarity into a dualarity,
to drive herself into another quantum system
to pick up the kids from soccer practice,
as compelled by an obvious external force.

And, during that same time frame,
she must again split into a third
full mother quantum system, becoming
a full triarity, because
everyone is counting on her,
and she absolutely must go about
getting the groceries.
Her existence really is
very trying at this point.
If this statement were untrue,
children wouldn’t exist.

Too bad that any and all answers
to this statement
must be considered speculation.

It’s not that the mailbox is too far
to walk to everyday, but that it’s just far enough
to make riding a bicycle meaningful.
Jim walks the dog every morning and evening,
but rides his bike to the box. On the way back,
he pedals while steering one-handed.

He takes joy in the idea of getting the mail.
He once checked three boxes daily, each one met
with the eagerness of unwrapping a birthday present.

Opening the mailbox is as satisfying as a meal.
When the flag broke off, he replaced it
with a serving spoon painted red.

As I grew up I learned
that dancing is a sin,
flaunting the body like that.

I’m not sure what the crazy play
we did was called when the rhythm
of music was involved.

When we played records of the waltzes
of Stauss, for example, we’d end up out of breath
and dizzy, practically dying, with all those whirling

twirls in the living room. Baby dervishes,
graceless, but not disgraceful. Once,
there was no stopping us.

When the flowers of buttercups
drop their leaves, there is an orb
left with sharp points that catch
on your socks when you pass by.
Hitchhikers intent on traveling
to set down roots elsewhere.

This is the way to learn
whether or not you like butter.
No need to take a taste,
just the reflection
of a single buttercup
flashing under your chin
will tell you the answer.

There is a Italian chicken
from the island of Sicily
who has with two combs
running side by each,
front to back. Perhaps
they like butter, too,
with a little sage and garlic.

Butterflies fly willy-nilly,
but if you were to try to catch one,
you may fall on your face, while they
will go farther than you thought.
Theirs is an ancient form of grace.

Spider babies mostly, but adults,
too, will climb high to a very windy ledge,
stand tall on their pointy little legs,
put their “abdomens” (so to speak) in the air,
and release a thin strand of webbing —
a bungee cord of sorts — and
viola, they are airborne, sometimes
soaring hundreds of miles.
Warning: Do not do this at home.

An unexpectedly Olympian
shorebird called the red knot
flies more than 18,600 miles round trip
every year. From southernmost South American
after gorging themselves ploppy, they fly
all the way up to the Artic Circle
to make babies, and then fly back again.
Mortality is high.
But not as high as the spider’s.

inspired by “Three” by Anne Carson

It is something we never mentioned before. But it
is as if it grew on our skin since we were born. Is,
as you asked repeatedly, everything okay? It’s not as
if no one would ever know what happened. But even if
we broadcast everything over the media for all ears, we
have kept our word! There’ll be no revenge. We have
all done what was necessary. Right? We have all

been exonerated. Breathe easy now. Everyone else has been
lowered into the container. Only two of them have glowered
into space between us. Now they are unable to gain entry into
anyplace near here. We’ll soon be safely breathing deeply of an
atmosphere that is safe. The newly developed green atmosphere
of recycled materials — healthier than the original, made mainly of
glass. We’ll soon be okay again, perfectly encased in and under glass.

My jeans. They’re kind of rough
to the touch, and button-up blue,
which is okay with me.
The lower cuffs are stiff
with dried dew from the grasses
I walked through this morning.

The sun shone dimly red
from the wildfire up north.
It looked like I was on
an African savannah,
with the grasses, and the sun
peering through the cottonwoods.
Except, let’s be honest:
I’ve never been to Africa,
so how would I know?

Still, it doesn’t quite look
like home. The Canadian
wildfires, and the one
down in the Chuckanuts,
have cast a heavenly glow
over the landscape. As I walk
past the pond, the surface
shimmers bronze between
the lily pads. The flowers,
usually pink-tinged white,
are orange this morning
from the new light.
Even the rabbits are out
to nibble from the gold
and green grasses.

In the old church,
on the hard, dark pews,
it grew hot and hotter
through the stained glass.

My little jacket was deep blue
with four buttons and two pockets.
One without a single hole. Wads of gum
stuck under the seat, some stickier
than others. My fingers soon smelled
lusciously of peppermint, clove, and spearmint.

And then came the sin, of course.
Who could resist? That devil.
Little kids can do things like this.
Chewing other people’s gum
without remorse. Savoring the flavors.
The understanding that, yes, it’s true
that gum keeps its flavor
when put on the bedpost overnight.
Even someone else’s gum.

Near Sappho, on the peninsula,
is a place quieter than you can count.
There’s an old barn with short-tempered
chickens and sunny kittens. An easygoing cow
with big horns. Beside the house,
a nine-foot high fence surrounds
a profusion of vegetables in the garden.
The wire fence keeps the deer and elk out,
usually. A trail runs clear down
to Bear Creek off the Sol Duc River.
The water so cold it could freeze
your feet, even in summer,
stand there too long.

This is the place my Great Aunt Olga
homesteaded. She cooked for the hunters
of elk and deer, gave them a place to stay.
And then she’d laugh,
because the hundreds of elk
meandering around the pastures and hills
the day before hunting season began
would disappear entirely
for the next several weeks.
But she made a grand oyster stew.
That made a difference somehow.