Each Summer Earth Called
And she spent the time bent
over the potato field, plunking each
into the sack, her back bowing to earth,
her thighs burning, earning this.

Now she bends over the sink,
unwinding the peel, to plink from each
spud, letting the dark mud of earth
fall away, and the luminescent

glow below brighten with each silver stroke.
The kettle steams onions, each
ring unstringing. Each bulb a translucent earth
loosened to birth depth to brine, bite to broth.

Lifting the cloth she pulls them to her,
and pours the pile of new moons in, each
dunks under other, like chunks of almost-earth
plunging into ocean. Motion churns

the surface, air versus water, simmer to surging boil.
She tests them, lunging tines into the brine, each
time lifting pale potato to examine. Earth
-y moon, too soon. Let it roil. More toil

to come. Till at last the fork sinks
into soft flesh. Each
urchin potato, rising from earth
‘s tide astride tongs belongs in the bowl.

Whole to diced, relish spiced with smoked paprika. She’ll
sneak a bold dash of mustard, while they’re clustered each
to other. Smother in mother’s favorite mayo. Let it Duke it out with earth
grown celery’s crunch. She hunches over the last

bunch. Butter-yellow deviled eggs, beg to revel
sinking their beveled sulfur into each
layer. See her weigh the balance. This is her earth.
This is her earn. This is her turn for summer gold.

Lifting Weight
Frustration is a crushing weight
pushing down on the chest.

My toddler knows this.
She crumples under it
spread eagle on the ground.
Shrieks siren from her mouth,
the weight, too much to stand.

I feel the weight, too,
pressing into my chest
till it burns, pushing me to crumple
to ache, to break into tears,
or burst like a steaming kettle
left on the burner so long
all the liquid has evaporated.

But I have carried this longer.
I have curled around it like an ocean
circling an island whose summit I’ll never touch,
letting emotion rise and fall,
a tide answering the moon’s reflection.

I have bent into it, borne up under it
step by weary step around the summit.
I have watched tidal surges wash all away:
every hope, each sticky dream,
the untouched palms,
only to uncover the hidden chest below
full of treasure I didn’t know to search for.
I have learned to press back.

So, I sit with her while she flails
against the whale in her chest,
let her know I hear, that I am here
that I can hold her up if she’ll let me.
That we can find a way
to lift the weight together.

No one needs to invent time travel
It’s already here. We’re already traveling.
The slam of a door layers then with now.
Raised voices split screen brains

send us back to prisms of pain.
The moment of terror as the airplane turns just so.
Oh, sky that certain clear cold blue, we go

back. We are washing dishes here
suds between our fingers. Indoor. But fear
places us in the car. Plays the announcers

voice crumbling like block towers. Fall.
Time travel exists inside us all. Thinning reality.
What we need to invent is a way away from time’s debris.

A failsafe to replace ache, mistake, heartbreak
with joy. With birds singing clear and sweet, laughter
echoing down the street. Ice pops running down chins,

grins between grandparents. Transparent moments
when the sun shone through the clouds. Just. That. Way.
Golden molasses dough rolled in sugar. Crinkled cookies

cooling on the counter. The need is plain.
We just need time travel that isn’t to pain.

***

You can learn more about Christiana by clicking on her bio:  https://thievingmagpie.org/christiana-doucette-bio/