[20] "A Vertical Miracle"

A Vertical Miracle

By Deidre Price

If a stem situates itself in your hair,

I must believe only that it was born to be there.

I must believe that a seed had a calling

to push, push, push

out of its skin,

up through the ground,

into a new being 

tall enough to be seen.

You, too, are a vertical miracle.

If you situate yourself anywhere,

I must believe only that you are born to be there.

I must believe that your life has a calling

to push, push, push

out of your skin,

up through the ground,

into a new being 

tall enough to be seen.

[19] "On the Subject of Dating: A Prose Poem"

On the Subject of Dating

By Deidre Price

People go about dating all wrong--decked out, dolled up, half-drunk, and with music so loud it doesn't matter the conversation. 

Be sick around this person, let there be kids nearby, have an annoying dog who pees on everything and barks incessantly, let the power go out, endure at least one tragedy together, know what they worship and why, and play a little poor sometimes because you might be poor someday. This person will be your world, and the world isn't contained to nightclubs, cliche fondue restaurants, or those ridiculous dolphin cruises. 

This person may be cleaning up after you when you cannot care for yourself, may be holding you up in a shower because you've been half-gutted and need the strength of an entire extra human body, may be holding your children some days because you cannot.

 

[18] "The Company of Others"

The Company of Others

By Deidre Price

for Josephine Ava, born 6:30 p.m. on March 29, 2013

You had only just arrived

when you flew to Washington, D.C.,

because of a “heart problem.”

Even though I am 961 miles away,

I can see all the way from Florida

that your doctors have misdiagnosed.

They’re looking only at the machinery of it.

They don’t know the whole story,

the history of hearts or the history of you.

-   -   -   -   -  

The truth is that everyone has heart problems:

The fact is we begin with far too few.

We’re assigned two hands, two feet, two lungs, two kidneys,

pairs of eyes, ears, nostrils, lips—extras of all the ‘must haves.’

God doles out three trillion pores per person,

100 billion neurons, more brain cells than we see stars in the Milky Way,

while daughters get 400,000 potential eggs in their tiny ovaries.

But we start with just one heart

and not a single spare in the trunk.

-   -   -   -   -

A heart needs an assist sometimes,

needs to confer with its peers,

for it’s a fickle, fragile thing until experience

teaches the memory that the heart works best

in the company of others.

We’re taught from birth to follow our hearts,

but having a change of heart means a new map.

A heart can make you fall in love,

but it can also make you fall out of love.

Some hearts go rogue and break others’ hearts,

and if a heart gets broken often enough or badly enough,

it can turn hard or stop.

-   -   -   -   - 

If anyone’s heart ever could be perfect,

it would be yours, Josie.

So, I call this a simple case of heart amnesia.

Remember you come from a long line of good hearts.

Your heritage has been built up,

lining every chamber, every wall.

I’ve known your father’s heart,

soft but strong, movable but not faint,

a willing, open heart that risks itself daily and fearlessly.

I’ve known your mother’s heart,

breaking and grieving for others’ brokenness and grief,

rebuilding itself because she lives to love, to serve others.

These hearts came together to make yours.

Your atria are full of charity,

your aorta, full of God.

Both ventricles have enough room to hold the helpless.

Every valve is strong enough to watch the world’s weight pass through.

You see, it’s exactly because you are not your own,

that your heart was designed to move and to be moved.

You arrived in the company of others

with hearts strong enough to beat for yours, too—

and they do, and they will—

until it remembers its name.

[17] "The Butcher"

The Butcher
by Deidre Price
 

For what I’m worth,

you must have paid the devil dearly

to believe you own me,

to lay me out on your hardwood block,

arrange the tools of your trade beside

my grade, the record of my wrongs.

You found the flaws you looked for,

trimmed them out, away,

no matter the blood.

You cut me down to sizes you thought

I should be, and when I grew back,

you brought my whole back to halfway.

You made me your Prometheus,

your pecking away reopening yesterday’s wounds,

but my skin kept growing back.

Time won’t let me die.

For what I’m worth,

you must have paid the devil twice

to have made me believe you own me, too.

When you’re born a slab on a hook,

you do not miss being alive

until someone teaches you the word.

When you believe you were born for the block,

you sharpen the butcher’s knives while he’s away,

you tend the shop, keep him happy.

When you believe you were born to bleed,

you learn the tricks of the butcher’s trade,

know where to cut and how deep.

When you believe you are the butcher’s,

you sleepwalk spare house keys to him,

give him maps to your front door,

put his tools under the mat.

You set yourself back on that block

and hope Time changes her mind.

[16] "Breakup Letter to a Basket of Laundry"

Breakup Letter to a Basket of Laundry

by Deidre Price

I will not do you

or do anything to you

until you stop doing

that thing you do to me—

that callous, couchpotatoed stare you give,

your Jabba impression,

your fluff—

that blind but hungry-eyed glazed-over gaze

says, “What are you wearing?”

like it’s any of your business—

that towel-wagging, sock-shedding blame

           you cover sofa arms and table legs with,

           makeshift bodies until you find my own.

You cannot have me, laundry.

I’m done. 

[15] "O[CD] Christmas Tree"

O[CD] Christmas Tree

by Deidre Price

If I were single and in New York by now,

I would have pulled out my Christmas tree snow globe already,

called decorating done and kept my space to myself.

If I were a twenty-something product of the Gap,

I would have found the hottest color and bought new ornaments to match it,

taken a picture and put it online for strangers to see.

If I had more money than imagination,

I would have window-shopped until I saw the perfect tree, then bought it,

star to skirt, and hired someone to recreate the magic in my den.

If I lived on 30A,

my living room tree would be the tallest, my dining room tree, comparable,

and my foyer tree totally green with recycled ornaments.

If I lived where Christmas trees grew,

I would walk outside, point, and tell my mountain man husband,

“Just flock it.”

If I were a responsible grown up,

I would buy a real tree.

I can’t be trusted with a real tree,

and I’m none of these things.

My tree,

because it’s me,

is fake—durable and fake.

It’s nine and a half feet of overcompensating for its insecurity of being fake.

It’s a mish mash of time.

From handmade to handmedown,

from Hallmark to all jacked up,

I see pears, birds, and angels from my mother.

Disney princesses and ballerinas remind me a girl lives here.

Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader make peace on our tree.

The bottom two feet of plush are for a tiny toddler.

Elementary faces adorn some branches,

fingerprints on glass balls find others.

Trains, Coca-cola polar bears, and gingerbread ladies form alliances.

Snoopy sits beside Ronald McDonald and Eeyore.

We won some ornaments in a divorce that wasn’t our own.

And sparkles, God, the sparkles on the snow men and flakes.

And this is how our tree will always be,

so full of love and family.