Testament of a collector’s heart
If I were a nest
I like to think I would house a magpie
With their black and blue and white feathers
Their collections of trinkets
I would be full of lost lockets and buttons and pebbles
Anything that glimmers
From oddities that shine
To keepsakes that show a person cares
I’d be the nest of a collector
The nest of something that appreciates what others don’t
A broken cog from a clock
A sewing needle too rusted over to use
Keys that have long lost their ability to open doors
An empty pen that no longer writes
I would be told I’m full of junk
Full of things that should be thrown away
I would be filled with the world’s greatest treasures
It’s greatest sentimentality
They would call it broken
And the magpie would call it theirs
That would be fine by me
If they never saw these objects as more than what they were
Even if they shimmer like the stars
I would be full of everything imaginable
And nothing at the same time
Filled to the brim with treasures
Seen as nothing more than trash
I would be my own paradox
And maybe
That wouldn’t be so bad
To be something a magpie can understand
Something that I can truly know
A trove of things that have found a purpose again.
– Originally appeared on KUVR's "Town Talk"
perfectly imperfect and vice versa
Throughout life, I was always told to love myself
That my body, mind, and soul were perfect
I was always told that it didn’t matter what other people think
What mattered, was how I felt in my own skin
And that got me thinking
What does it mean to be perfect
Is perfect the model you see on Instagram
Or the confidence a man has as he walks
No, it is not
Perfect is what I see as a chain
Restraints created by Society that bound your neck
Squeeze until you leave a like, a comment, a compliment
And then question your own self worth
Question why you can’t be like them
But as I see it
Perfect doesn’t exist
Not in that sense
Not in a way that matters
I see perfect as a construct
A way to give people a false sense of opinion
Perfect to me, is the small squint in a lazy eye
The crooked grin in a person’s smile
That small freckle on their right ring finger
Or the one at the very base of their throat
Perfect is the hunch that always remains in their posture
Even with the attempts to straighten in
The way their teeth always have that small, yellow tint
The way they smile big despite it
How they walk like they own the place
But are scared of what’s around the corner at the same time
Perfect is that glimmer they get during deep conversations
The way their eyes light up when talking about a passion
Perfect is subjective
And that is all a person needs
Divine in the Ordinary
Since I was little
I loved the old Greek tales—
Stories of gods, monsters, heroes, and fate
Wishing—hoping they were real
Wondering if I would ever get the chance to see one
If I would ever get the chance to talk to one
As I grew older
I knew it was highly unlikely
But after a while I started seeing them
The gods never came from Olympus
They came from the meals during family dinner
From the movie nights held on evenings spent together
I noticed the mighty Zeus in my step-father
The fierce eagle he had tattooed across his back
The way his laughter boomed like thunder
I noticed the stunning Hera in my mother
A woman whose family meant more to her than anyone
Someone who finally found her happiness through marriage
I noticed the twins Apollo and Artemis in my younger siblings
My brother with his golden hair and love of music
My sister with her adventurous spirit and adoration for the outdoors
I noticed the mischief maker Hermes in my father
The shifty but playful smiles he gives me
His ease with communication like he himself created words
I noticed the steadfast Demeter in my step-mother
The beauty of her garden
And love for her children
I noticed the gentle Gaia in my grandmother
Her resilience in giving life to six children
The way she acts like the mother of all mothers
I see all of these gods and goddesses
I know I am blessed to see them in these people
And though Olympus never opened its gates to me
The divine chose to live quietly in those I love
And perhaps the gods never really left the myths
They just became a part of my family
The Keeper of Memories
It was a calm, Autumn morning. The breeze was brisker than normal today, a tribute to the coming winter not far along. I had been trudging past the park, earbuds in my reddened ears, when I saw her. She seemed to be no more than twenty, her features young, but the weight in her eyes told stories older than time. Sitting on a small blanket in the grass beneath an old and giant oak tree, hands folded in her lap, she watched as people of all kinds passed by. She wore an intricate pumpkin orange sweater over neat jeans, perfect for fall. Her hair–the strands like fine silk–was a dark black that seemed to reflect the morning light. I stopped my walk to look at her for a moment. Actually, look at her.
She was breathtaking in a sense that brought a wave of tranquility whenever she looked your way. Like she herself was a rock in an ocean storm, anchoring you against the thrashing waves. Despite this, I couldn’t help but notice how others reacted to her quiet presence. Some passed by with uneasy side-eyes or recoiled when she turned her gaze to them. Others refused to look at her entirely, turning their heads and screwing their eyes shut trying not to run into anyone in the process. A few people burst out in tears and ran in the opposite direction at the sight of her.
The scent of dead leaves lingered in the air around her, earthy and sweet, as if the world was settling into a deep sleep. Even the birds seemed to hesitate in their songs when they got nearby.
With my attention piqued, I carefully approached her and asked, ‘Why does everyone seem to back away and fear you?’
The girl, surprised by the question, skeptically said, ‘Why don’t you?’ I was shocked by this, and taking in the gentle gray of her irises, I explained, ‘You’re so beautiful. If anything, I’m drawn to you.’
The girl froze when the words left my mouth, her face aghast as if I had insulted her. ‘You don’t mean that,’ she whispered, as if beauty was something she'd never been offered. As if the word belonged to someone else, and not her. Never her.
I was utterly confused, but I sat down beside her. She hesitantly let me. And for many moments, I sat beside her on the blanket beneath that tree. ‘If you don’t mind me asking,’ I had looked at her then, ‘why should I fear you?’ My music had long since stopped. I didn’t even notice the silence
The girl sighed and watched as a mother, whose child was nowhere to be seen, started sobbing at the sight of her. ‘Most see me as some ugly, vile thing. Something that takes and takes.’ I watched people with her. ‘But I don’t take, I only hold the door open.”
I nodded in understanding. Not only of her words, but of her.
‘I’m not some beast that steals or takes without remorse.’ Her eyes looked at the blanket beneath her, hand smoothing down a small rumple in the fabric. ‘I regret every single one that comes with me. Every single one I guide.’
I smiled softly. ‘I know.’ I wrapped my finger around my earbud cord absentmindedly. “It can’t be easy. Doing what you do every day.” The girl watched me with glassy eyes, as if debating if someone like her was even allowed to cry. ‘I’ve seen you before. You were there when she died.’ I spoke softly, and with something almost like nostalgia, never accusation.
‘Your mother.’ The girl answered without any more prompting. Which I confirmed with a somber nod. ‘I remember her. Kind woman.’ The girl paused, as if thinking, Cancer, was it?’ She looked at me with a softness that made her seem several years younger. ‘You have her eyes.’
I smiled weakly and pulled my knees to my chest. ‘I just want to know one thing.’
The girl waited.
‘Did she suffer? Did the cancer cause her pain?’
‘No. She felt no pain at all.’
A relieved breath escaped from me like I had been holding it for years. Maybe I had. ‘I was three. And you guided her. Can you tell me about her?’
The girl smiled gently and began telling me about my late mother. How she had been so excited to be a mom, how she wanted to be a good one. She told me about her silly little accidents that almost made them meet sooner than expected, about how charmingly reckless she had been as a teen.
And for hours, I stayed there with the girl. The embodiment of all things Macabre.
For hours, I listened to Death tell me about my dead mother.
a fact about my mother
My favorite fruit is watermelon,
A delicious treat perfect for the summer,
And sometimes,
My mother will tell me something I find interesting,
When I was in her womb,
The only thing she craved was watermelon.
This could be a coincidence,
Or not,
But I think about the moments she tells me,
Of her sitting on the stairs,
Eating my favorite fruit with a swollen belly,
And it makes me think we have this special bond.
Maybe one that bypasses regular mother/daughter bonds,
One that tethers me to her,
In a way that keeps us together forever,
No matter how far we may be,
Even if we're worlds apart.
“Hyacinth Aria,” by Sharon Olds. AGNI, Issue 89, 2019.
In Sharon Olds’s “Hyacinth Aria,” the usual, written form of poetry isn’t found. In its place, stands words that seep into your mind and your heart, connecting them as one, sentences that form an ache behind your ribs. “When my mother was felled, by the sudden blow/of a stroke, decked by a deep bleed when the old/brain tumor broke through,” here, Olds speaks of losing her mother, a very real and relatable tragedy. Even so, I find it interesting when she mentions the hyacinth flowers, a symbol from the Greek tale of losing a loved one. A flower that tells a story in blood and misery. “and there on the seminar table/was a garden, in a small shoebox/crate, with a lattice wooden fence, in/side it the spears of hyacinths.” Olds compares the loss of her mother to the loss the Greek god Apollo felt when he lost his lover, Hyacinthus, whom the flowers were named after. This shows that Olds cared deeply about her mother, so much so that she chose to remember her by a flower known for its tale of heartbreak. She displays this as well in her very last few lines, “And so, for a moment,/I loved my mother—she was my first chance,/my last chance, to love the human.”