What we notice. What we look past. The quiet politics of where we put our eyes.

Attention

Attention is where love actually lives. This week we practice looking longer — at the room, the stranger, the thing we keep walking past.

All summer I made friends 
with the creatures nearby ---
they flowed through the fields
and under the tent walls,
or padded through the door, 
grinning through their many teeth,&nbsp;&nbsp;
looking for seeds,
suet, sugar; muttering and humming, 
opening the breadbox, happiest when
there was milk and music. But once
in the night I heard a sound 
outside the door, the canvas 
bulged slightly ---something
was pressing inward at eye level.
I watched, trembling, sure I had heard
the click of claws, the smack of lips
outside my gauzy house ---
I imagined the red eyes, 
the broad tongue, the enormous lap. 
Would it be friendly too?
Fear defeated me. And yet,
not in faith and not in madness 
but with the courage I thought
my dream deserved,
I stepped outside. It was gone.
Then I whirled at the sound of some
shambling tonnage.
Did I see a black haunch slipping
back through the trees? Did I see
the moonlight shining on it?
Did I actually reach out my arms
toward it, toward paradise falling, like
the fading of the dearest, wildest hope ---
the dark heart of the story that is all
the reason for its telling?

The Chance To Love Everything

not in faith and not in madness
but with the courage I thought
my dream deserved,
I stepped outside.

Ordinary Gods

Describe the light in a room you spent years in.

my princess canopy bed
had a long, tulle cover that bunched and tied at its ends
and one time i shut all the lights out
closed the doors, not before peeking out
untied my tulle curtains
and attempted to hang limp.

of course it was dark
heavy, my neck ached
i couldn’t see anything 
i could be stabbed 11 times
and not feel a thing
for what felt like forever
i sat with the tulle wrapped around my sobbing splotchy red neck.
it didn’t work, and i got up for breakfast later morning.