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Samantha Reynolds - 2


The big questions

You used to ask me about death
in the dark
in the whisper voice you use
when you don’t want
your stuffies to hear

but now you are
so cheerful about it
pointing at old people
in grocery stores
asking me with some excitement
if they are almost dead

yesterday you cornered me
and wanted to know
if people ever die
the night before Christmas

I tell you people die every day
in a tone that tries to say

death is not scary
but perhaps don’t bring it up
so loud in public
so you whisper back
with wide eyes

what does Santa do
with their toys?

Stories with no words

I am told we don’t remember much
before we are four
though they are still there
the memories
like eggs
you don’t see
in a cake

the acupuncturist tells me
they hide in the body
stories with no words
roosting in our livers
hanging from our lungs
swept into webs
around our hearts

like the other day
when I locked the bedroom door
you screaming on the outside
me on the inside

I just need to not be here for a minute

I begged silently
with my eyes closed
my fists white and dancing

I tell myself there are exceptions
memories that just fall out
like loose change

or then a map at least
of your little body
so I can find out
where that moment has nested
and love you enough
to scrub it away.

How I Know I Am an Optimist

I know I am an optimist
because I am always pleased
when the house is tidy
surveying it
like the conqueror
of somebody else’s land

and I believe it will stay that way
that I am not Sisyphus
that the boulder
will not fall again

and when your dad sings from downstairs

there’s somethin’ dead or dyin’
in our fridge

in his best Neil Young voice
I know that I will simply hunt down the soft lump
throw it away
and we will never waste food again

and when your sister
takes all the clothes off the hangers
while I am folding laundry
and you yell

it’s a emergency

because you meant to print
one copy of the Snow White picture
but for some reason it printed 60 copies
and we can’t get it to stop

I just lay down on the floor
and let the rhythm of the printer
soothe me
like a heartbeat

I know
it will be different
tomorrow.

This is where I find you

In the chalky light of morning
in the hallway
whispering
to three pieces of lint

fluff one
fluff two
fluff three

you point them out to me
a solemn introduction

they are on their way to Africa
you tell me
in a backhoe

and then one piece of lint
cleaves into two
which is a tragedy
I didn’t see coming

half an hour later
there we are
your face all spent and splotchy
teaching me a lesson
I didn’t know I needed
about how wide
we can love.

Picture

Samantha Reynolds' profile
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My four-year-old poetry teacher

My brain is jammed
with the noise of errands
and the poem knows it

half-done
hiding away
in the quiet
of my ribcage
waiting
for a way
back in

which is how I came to see
how the noticing
pours out of you
blunt and new

like the colour of the girl’s hair
in your drawing
that is neither brown nor blonde
and you tell me
it is like a paper bag
which of course it is

and how you describe
grandpa’s face
as mushy
and that a frog
would feel like a bird
if you held it tight
in your hand

and how nuns
look like Red Riding Hood
in black and white
and how library books
smell like closets

so I kept asking
and the answers dropped out of you
obvious as stones
each one a lesson
in what it takes
to be a poet.

The feast

The poem sits inside you
like a hunter
waiting
for a weak moment
of indecision
or the lull
of your commute

and that’s when it pounces
clawing its words
into the hem of your lips

for birth is no place for grace

and your friends think it’s serene
this poetry

but they don’t see
its teeth
that if you don’t give it paper
to feast on
your friends will call for you
and find only
a stack
of bones.

You are more than a sweaty turnip

I take offence on your behalf
to what they focus on
as you press your way
week by week
into my skin

like this week
one website compared you
to a turnip
and made note
of your sweat glands

and why the term rump
like you are a cut of steak

am I the only one
who wonders if you dream yet

and what about your amygdala
a word so beautiful it could be your name
that almond-shaped slice of your mind
where your memories nest

will I feel it when it grows
collecting your slippery thoughts

when you dream inside of me
do I get to watch.

I think of them often

I think of them often
hadn’t seen him much since high school
never met his wife
but we all heard the news

the punch of grief
wanting to bury the words
far away

I hold my daughter  tight
born at the same time
and she feels suddenly
like something
that could blow away

but later I forget
and I wonder
how dare I let someone so small
make me feel so safe

I think of them often
and I realize I don’t know
how to love a stranger

and I don’t know how to ask

do you count the days
you had him
or the hours.


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