p.a.d. * day eleven

Toy Soldier

Pulling back the
covers I am greeted by
some dark thing in the sheets
and put my face close to
see my son’s
steadfast toy soldier.

What he
lacks in
size he makes
up for in
determination
and spirit.

I am ignorant on
all but the crudest points of
maneuver and
attrition warfare
but I wonder if this
toy soldier is disturbing more
than my sleep. Perhaps he’s
wearing me down slowly: pushing
the checkbook just a little each
day until it falls behind
the computer desk, whispering
that annoying song in
my ear so I forget why
I walked into the bathroom and
opened the medicine cabinet, knocking
the vase of white carnations off
the kitchen table just as
I lie down with a
good book.

I want to toss
him aside and go
to sleep but the
toy soldier raises his
battle axe and I can
see he’s
resolved himself.

He does not
want me to
to roll over and
turn out the
light, he needs this
barbarous
boom
and
bang
like I need
sleep.

Half his army is
lost, the rest
retreated, this
is his last ditch
attempt to dislodge
me from this bed or
die trying.

PAD - Day Ten

Friday

I planned to stay
indoors today but
the sun is
a spinning wheel
in an electric blue sky

p.a.d. challenge ***day nine

Memory

You were born of earth and sky,
a pansy clenched in your tight fist.
Already men were second-guessing themselves,
recoiling their tongues
like long black snakes.

poem-a-day...day eight

She Dresses

She sits up slowly
on the edge of your bed,
wearing nothing but a gauze bandage
as a reminder she is mortal.
She has long hair, ripples of brown
and red and silver.
She wears it
down, either
because she thinks
you prefer it that way
or because she uses it
as a curtain through which she flows, head bent
forward and chin tucked under, bobbing
like a bottle caught in the current.
You raise her arms
and pull the blue dress over
her head, leaning in
you lift her hair like
a veil, and kiss her papery
cheek,
the smell of her skin so
far from pain, the dosing
of pills,
you’re in lavender
up to your knees,
tentative, but no longer
needing to be sure.

p.a.d. day seven

Dusting

I have a confession. I don’t dust. Not really. Not ever. Sometimes it happens. Accidentally.
Taking a novel off the bookshelf. Rearranging furniture. Reaching for the old blue teapot on top of the refrigerator.
You always said cleanliness is next to godliness. The path to righteousness is paved with damp cloths.
Dust ye: for the kingdom of heaven shines like a fresh coat of furniture polish.
I want to dust. I do. Just not as much as I want to read Ulysses. Or have a root canal.
And I’m tired of pretending. You deserve to know. So I’m just gonna say it and hope you’ll forgive me.
I’m a dirty girl.

p.a.d. day six

Panzanella

I didn’t know how much I would miss the scent of
bay leaf wafting from the kitchen,
rolling through the living room
and settling over couches and coffee table.

I didn’t fully appreciate the comfort of
pungent cinnamon,
prized quills of antiquity,
both sacred and erotic.

I didn’t miss you until I dressed
the salad, until I saw
the flakes fall from my fingers,
little flecks of white
settling on chunks of bread,
dusting the bright green basil,
clinging to the tomato
like a long lost friend.

Christina Hile

poem-a-day * day five

Along Water Street

You didn’t believe in reincarnation,

but you are the harbor.

You shed your faded pink blouse and blue jeans,

spread your arms and don the sea,

wrap it about your shoulders

like an inky blanket flecked with buttons of pearl.

Your legs are the pillars and the tired, faded boards of the pier

that hold up the people of this city, that keep me walking,

keep me watching for the sun to reach down from the steel grey

of a cloud-covered sky and kiss my eyes.

Some days I want nothing more

than to go back to sleep and wake

with one hand holding the red ribbon of a balloon

and the other tightly in yours,

walking the boardwalk

smelling handmade soap

and fresh roasted peanuts,

a time when the barnacles and limpets

competing for space underneath the wharf

didn’t make me think of cell division and metastasis.

I don’t know where I will go when I die,

if I will find peace in the dirt of a grave,

or if someone will smell me

in the saltwater wind

or see me in the turning prow

of a green and white tugboat

leaving the harbor

again and again.