in prep for summer

Here's a poem that first appeared in my thesis and subsequently in The White Pelican Review. Pasted here for your encouragement if it happens to be close to home.

Ratio in Drought

The reservoir recedes. The shore

Is fishing lures and mussel shells.

In sorghum muck the heron stalks

A glimmering of fish. She knees

Along her way in snapshots while

Her crook of neck uncoils to meet

The spot where she’ll be next.

With waders hitched above his gut,

A thin man floats a feathered fly

Into a cranny dimpled

By invisible mosquitoes.

A twelve-deep stack of notices

At home, a tumor in his young

Son’s head, he comes to cast and jig,

To swallow the fist in his throat.

A bass erupts through gathered froth

And pauses, still-life for a blink,

Then flops, darts for waters cool

Beneath the jutting bluffs. The man

Is happy for the miss, the chance

To try again. The bird ascends.

A bloated, tallow-bellied cloud

Slugs in the distance—steady, slow.

cigars in heaven

In the beginning, there were Tolkien and Lewis. My early guides into the dank underground of fiends and fell beasts. Into the perilous realms of myth and faith and fairytale. Into the crannies of my own imagination. Sure there were the abridged [gasp and shame] editions of Cooper, Stevenson, Twain, Defoe, Dumas, et. al., and the uninhibited goofiness of Seuss and Silverstein, and the apprenticeship to Encyclopedia Brown, and the commiseration of another fourth-grade nothing, and espionage with one Harriet M. Welsch, and more, for sure; but it was in the Shire in conference with a wizard that I first felt the true, osmotic warmth of fiction's fire; it was in Narnia over tea with Mr. Tumnus that I knew, more than almost anything else, that my name was Lucy and I was fond of the flute. Soporifically fond.

In short, I am here for having been in those places. My enthusiasm for literature would likely have dwindled soon if not for the early and abiding influence of those two ingenious dons. Perhaps, I would have never returned to unabridged editions of those illustrated classics. Perhaps, I would never have mucked through the marshes of Dickens or raced through the heather of Hardy--those two later heroes of mine. And here's a thought, by what road then, if not for them, would I have arrived in front of this screen. Writing because I too am a writer now, if I may be so audacious in the vicinity of these other names.

I wonder if I'd've ever found my way here. Then again, such is the nature of all of our choices. That is, they uncannily result in actuality. Or so it seems. Though there is some dispute as to the existential before and after of it all, the which-of-my-choices-were-mine-after-all of it all. So who knows, really. I am only guessing that I would not be here. Here in your face, specifically. More generally, here in my face. What laughter lines do I owe the bumbling Samwise Gamgee, what furrows were plowed when Aslan was slain? Even if those particular lines have been erased, re-scrawled, and erased again since then; it was surely those lines that first taught my flesh to wrinkle at words.

I am of this mind presently because today is Lewis' birthday. A fact I do not claim to have secure in my head by devices mnemonic or repetitious. A fact I was treated to by my desk calender. Thanks, desk calender. It is a fun fact indeed and colors my cockles rosy. The fellow would be 112 by now. Had his mortal heart been as lasting as his legacy. Had anachronisms not been liquidated in That Hideous Strength. (Best Chapter Title Ever, BTW--The Liquidation of Anachronisms. That phrase alone could have kept me thrilled with literature for a plenty long time.)

Though we are not always on the same page, Clives Staples (best name ever, btw) and I, he will always be half of my holy duo. Beyond his fictions, I will always admire his faith in the unflinching face of reason and reality. Through his personal grief, he learned the approximate weight of the world's sorrow and bore it out on pages before us that we might feel, by reading mere words, some lightening of our own heavy loads. He said what we wanted to say about God--what we should say if not for want of a candor willing to broach the blasphemous. What a fine apologist, old Jack. Commitment in surfeit. Against all claims of experience. An "intolerable" doctrine of Hell, admittedly repugnant and "detestable" but nonetheless justified as moral. No problem. A heaven populated by unrecognizable family and friends yet more joyous than the sensational loves of them all combined. Sure. Why not?

Now doesn't this all sound great. In fact, thanks to you, Jack, it does. Happy birthday, Mr. Lewis. I hope you were wrong about heaven. I hope "there are cigars in Heaven. For that is what we should all like. The happy past restored."