Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Invisible Man

Someone says: go sit down and write a poem, any poem. What would you write? Yeah, I'm not sure, either. Welcome to my Perfectly Poetical Tuesday.

This time
living seems less about before and after
and more about
how then and how now.

That time
there were weeks
of anxiety and insomnia and wondering:
and all the books
(and I read all the books)
don’t adequately prepare
and you know they don’t adequately prepare
and that’s a panicky feeling
for a book-oriented girl.

That other time
there was so much worrying
about the first
and how would the first do
With a second
there was little worrying about the second
Herself.
(Except, of course, re: how she’d emerge.)

This time
I don’t worry about the first
and I don’t worry about the second.
I just wonder about the third.

That time
I handed over my compact
for a station wagon
and that other time
a center seat became
a side-by-side pair and
this time
we bought a candy-apple minivan.

That time we still had
an office and a guest room and
that other time
we bought a pull-out couch
and this time
all our upstairs rooms will hold bedding.

We’ll be a package of newborns
and a package of size 5s
and a package of size 6 pull-ups
(just for sleeping)
-sized family.

We’ll be a purple
and orange (the second one's passion)
and blue
-colored family.

We’ll be a zone defense
-no huddle family.

This is what we wanted:
that they’ll outnumber us
and outwit us
and outlast us
just as soon as their silent partner

Breaks his silence.

His ultrasound face looks
a little like that one
but more like that other one.
We guess at shapes and shadows.

He is already beloved. He is also already
phone calls to the insurance agent and
papaya antacid tablets and
elastic waistbands and
handmedowns in airplanes and camo
instead of daisies and kitty cats.

We couldn’t keep our compact’s license plates because
he is
a new class of vehicle.

He is a conjured playmate
and a conjured nuisance
and an unsolicited warning: don’t make another
Mama’s boy.

So snowflakes fall
and laundry piles
and styrofoam pellets
roll like tumbleweeds across our waiting game.

He is waiting for us, or
we’re waiting for him.
He is invisible.

He is cloud puff and fairy tale dust and
not quite real.

Soon he'll be real. Pin It

6 comments:

This Heavenly Life said...

*sigh* That's good stuff. I love it when you're undirected!

cndymkr / jean said...

Wow. Very nice stuff.

Emily said...

This is great--all those amazing internal rhymes--and honest and real. Wonderful.

6512 and growing said...

So sweet.

Stephanie said...

I was going to apologize for being difficult. But then I read your poem. Wow. Apparently you thrive when challenged! This poem tells a beautiful story, and you should put it in your Invisible Man's baby book!

Thanks for joining in! Sorry I didn't make it over here sooner. I've had my hands (and head) full with work stuff.

a li'l bit squishy said...

oh so perfect, R! just perfect!