Down Splash

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Michelle lives and writes in Seattle. In 2020, she spent all of her stimulus money on poetry writing classes at the Hugo House.

Maddy Baker&nbsp;. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ca Ku . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Maximillian Benjamin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chris Ensey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Valentin Lacoste . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jong Marshes&nbsp;. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Tim Peterson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bermix Studio . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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A childhood running with the wind rare moments of wing on wing a delicate tiller touch&nbsp; smooth teak and warm correction gives way to this most gentle point of sail a steadying hand on the back from forceful winds or calm pushing me forward toward unknown horizons Attempts to moor so temporary returning from a madrona island hike&nbsp; no longer at anchor our craft floating gently away answering the song of some other future Another attempt contact made then lost

we come about and try again and turn wanderings into legends To anchor well to leave the safety of a conjoined life with line and chain carried and tossed over the bow the fearful and forever fall a weightless movement through fathoms On the sea floor&nbsp; down becomes across twisting and turning through rock mud and sand Finding ground&nbsp; with planted fluke a jolt as line strains then tightens&nbsp; a fluid and silent connection&nbsp; above and away a shimmer of safety

Thank you to my writing teachers at the Hugo House in Seattle, and for the community of writers they support. https://hugohouse.org/

A penny for the thought . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . Tuesday lunch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . Safe streets and neighborhood walks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A crater appeared . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . To anchor well . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Foxhole . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Your numbers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Impact . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .&nbsp;. . . .

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Safe Streets and Endless Neighborhood walks

Bamboo spilling ever up and out. Our connection with the wild. A rustling whispering with the wind.&nbsp; Under the weight of bamboo, a lone angular archway, so solid and supportive. A gentle here and there divide. Down low the rock pathway, softened by green finery, meanders and undulates without movement.&nbsp; Docile and true, along this pathway I sit. Stone warm, legs crossed, hands gently folded in front of me. Haunted people stand at the edge of this garden, looking in. Longing and sorrow we acknowledge and cannot own.&nbsp; And holding their gaze, together and now, we breathe once, twice, three times. And so it is.

How astonishing a fox on our grounds I alone am not surprised I knew you would return to me in some form I sense you first one minute I move in this world hushed autumn morning a mug of bitter, black brew And then the cells in my body excite, realign rush toward you

I find you easily near the stone pathway behind the hemlock I hold your gaze your hunger for connection meets your fear of traps You turn away - I knew you would - leave me bereft a memory of a golden tail beauty forever behind you I long to claim you follow you home wrestle and writhe until victorious I greet the winter darkness with you draped around my neck

When I dropped you off – again - at the clinic, I thought, “He’s okay.” Then I said, “He’s okay.” Because for the 23,636 days of you, it’s been true. Except when you flew over the handle bars and bones shattered, or when you stood at your father’s grave, or the time I quietly closed the door behind me And vowed never to return. That leaves 23,633 days That’s prime, babe. &nbsp;

All is quiet and still as I duck into the lane which leads to the park.&nbsp; The trees - like urban street kids - are wild and communicative here.&nbsp; As I leave the path, the empty park awaits me.&nbsp; So I claim my favorite bench,&nbsp; underneath the silver poplar.&nbsp; I open up the brown bag -&nbsp; Turkey and cranberry.

Was it day or night? /&nbsp;I take night /&nbsp;Time for you to consider /&nbsp;the meeting /&nbsp;the reckoning /&nbsp;I’ll call it the future you chose /&nbsp;No deer for you /&nbsp;Beneath your gentleness I glimpsed iron /&nbsp;like the father who loved you with his cruelty /&nbsp;My choice to see you / the reader of Russian classics /&nbsp;how you sketched the human form in all its frailty /&nbsp;your gift captured the graceful lines of the neck / the curves of the shoulder /&nbsp;the shadows and hollows of the clavicle /&nbsp;Still / I love to put a penny on the tracks / slow rumble leading to rhythmic roar /&nbsp;inevitable contact /&nbsp;I watch holes in the world appear through empty cars /&nbsp;then scramble in the bushes for my crushed copper memento /&nbsp;Now I play in the water with the children /&nbsp;they create and destroy castles / charge headfirst and fearless into the waves /&nbsp;Looming above the beach /&nbsp;the tracks /&nbsp;Around my neck a chain / my fingers find the coin

My mixed tape of global fear and want and sorrow, starts with ‘Hello, get the hell away from me.’ Don’t touch your face. Don’t don’t don’t don’t touch your face. See you in a Zoom room, that’s our new place. Fatigue sets in, where's the bomb when you need it? Say again? I do believe you’re muted. A mutation.&nbsp; Remember graduation? Only last year? Chatty, clappy, clinky, clever, all of us telling stories that mattered, only we couldn’t see the germs scatter, but now we&nbsp;know how fast they travel. Tests? Who needs tests? We don't need tests. Kching, kching, kching, people marching, asking how rich can The Man be? Ah Left, left, left, right, left, boots together, arm up: Heil the conquering Virus!

Some people are okay with keeping the world at bay,&nbsp; But not me. How do I even know when it’s Saturday? Cold vodka meets martini glass, three fat olives impaled on a pick, 4 o’clock, 2 o’clock, noon o’clock, whatever. In my ‘hood, an old mausoleum, full of light and calm and the end of all sorrow. Why do I imagine old Abe Lincoln, burdened and honest, and tall? Because he thought we might manage it all?&nbsp; He once connected the mystic cords of memory with a swelling of the union and threw in some angels, too. In this silence, I hear the trees move.

I walk past the sequoia as I leave home.&nbsp; The children on the corner play in their yard, throwing balls, their cat, each other.&nbsp; They shriek and laugh uproariously.&nbsp; Mona putters out back and we “How-do-you-do?” each other. I wonder - as always - about the creation story of her magnificent black walnut tree.&nbsp; It’s a late bloomer, now in its canopied glory.&nbsp; At the top of the hill, M.C.’s garden grows neat and tidy from dirt to fecund in a month.&nbsp; No surprise that she doesn’t miss her fancy job.&nbsp; She’ll need to zucchini bomb soon, for sure.&nbsp; I peek into Brian’s place, past the bamboo that through some hard work and magic has not yet taken over the neighborhood,&nbsp; and nod to Shiva, sitting serene and watchful at the end of an undulating path.&nbsp; A few houses down, I grab one of the painted rocks a primary colored peacock for Cora.&nbsp;

She’s shut-in and content, but sad that she can’t swim this summer.&nbsp; An extra 5-minute walk brings me to the fancy store where I consider the merits&nbsp; of a turkey/cranberry sandwich or an eggplant/hummus wrap.&nbsp; My friend’s teenage son works in the deli - his first job –&nbsp; and I ask him to choose for me.&nbsp; I turn away as he slips my lunch into a bag.&nbsp; As I leave the store, I remember&nbsp; the thank you note in my pocket&nbsp; and slip it under the mat at the blue house on Lucile street, where only last week I grabbed a “Take me Home” euphorbia plant.&nbsp;&nbsp; I detour down Ashworth street because it’s shady, and I hope to catch a glimpse of the artist I met only last week.&nbsp; He uses found objects – mostly metal and wood - and is grieving the loss&nbsp; of his wife of 45 years.

A crater appeared outside the kitchen window. It must have happened last night. I yawn and forget about it. For breakfast we eat Belgian waffles with honey from the farmer’s market. The child mentions the&nbsp;crater&nbsp;after lunch - chicken soup with dumplings made in the InstantPot. We stand on the edge and look down. We throw in a small Central American country and a pinecone, to see which sinks faster and hear when it hits bottom. We wait, hear nothing. The country sinks faster. Grilled salmon for dinner, then we watch ‘Frozen’ with the children. We take the dog for a walk and she falls in the&nbsp;crater&nbsp;with the hemlock tree.&nbsp;Such shallow roots. The next morning, I feed it a word cloud with nouns, verbs, and adjectives we no longer have use for. Basically, most of the words in the first two Superman movies. I throw in Superman, too. No need for earnestness.

It eats and I feed it like the former dog, between work hours and swim camp, board games in the evenings.&nbsp;It likes brown children and prisoners.&nbsp;It needs a name, so we call it ID. It is unresponsive to Freud’s collected works, which I always meant to read. I run out of&nbsp;nutritious&nbsp;meals, and it is still hungry.&nbsp;The banners and slogans went right before the entire country. The valiant south howled longer than the rest. When I watched the moon and the Jupiter Symphony go, I feel the final gasp of ambition and grace. The children went in last night. Now I sit on a lawn chair near the edge with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. The loud empty reminds me of how Chomsky loved to be right.&nbsp;Colorless green ideas do sleep furiously.

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