The Real Story: Writing our Lives as Caregivers

At the beginning, all you think about is loss.
An incomplete geode
on its way to full formation
but somehow interrupted
from reaching its brilliance.

Like a piece at the potter’s wheel,
you are gradually changing,
like a rock in the stream
becomes less sharp and develops smooth corners.
Perfectly imperfect.

Excerpt of poem from participants in Writing Our Lives as Caregivers, October 14, 2017. (Composed with lines from all by Pauletta Hansel)

Most of the poems in the book I called Palindrome (meaning something that is read the same backwards as forwards) were written in the roughly two year period my mother spent in her first nursing home. There are outliers on either side, but Mom’s move into “care” in March 2015 marks an unofficial start to when my life both on and off the page leaned into my role as her shepherd and as her scribe. Nearly two years later, the manuscript of poems and prose written in response to my mother’s dementia was accepted for publication. And about halfway through that period, in April 2016, I became Cincinnati’s first Poet Laureate.

The timing was pretty good for putting my name in the running for this very part time positon. I had not tried to replace my previous position as writer in residence at a local college because of my new focus on Mom, whose dreaded “middle-stage dementia” had her literally bouncing off the walls. And while Cincinnati was asking for an occasional “occasional” poem, mostly they wanted a poet who had a clear plan for the role. Mine was to connect people to poetry and connect people through poetry, mostly through a series of writing experiences.

The first such experience I offered was a workshop called Writing Our Lives as Caregivers, in partnership with the Cincinnati Alzheimer’s Association which had been a huge help to our family before and after Mom’s move. Annette Wick, a writer, teacher and caregiver to her own mother, enthusiastically joined me in the project. (You can read Annette’s caregiving blog here.) Annette and I were on a similar journey, both as writers and daughters. Through the wonders of social media, I had learned of Annette’s interest in starting a family caregivers’ writing group, and invited her to pilot it through this joint effort. A year and a half later, we are still doing it, and have expanded our partnership with the Alzheimer’s Association and with each other to include writing with professional caregivers and sometimes with people with dementia, through their Memories in the Making program. (To find out about our February 27 program with professionals, including nurses, social workers and aides, “How Stories Help,” click here. For our March 22 program for family caregivers, click here.)

While most participants are also grateful members of the Alzheimer’s Association’s ongoing support groups, they appreciate how writing allows us to go down beneath our usual struggles and complaints to a place where we can experience the spiritual and emotional truths of our lives as caregivers. It helps that Annette and I have been at this, the writing and the caring, long enough that we can find beauty in the broken things: a mother’s cracked voice singing a hymn the daughter has never heard, or the way her hands still stitch an invisible needle through cloth that no one else can see.

Wherever you are in your journey as a daughter or as a son, I offer you this writing prompt to explore things those things “perfectly imperfect” in your own relationship with your elders, whether in the present, as Annette is, or in memory, as I am: Mom died in January 2017. One note: this will work best if you delay reading Part Three of the exercise until you have completed Parts 1 and 2.

  1. Find an object in nature, that is something that is not made by human hands: a leaf, a broken piece of bark, a shell, a rock, for example, or if you are able to write outside, a tree or a boulder, It is important that you can get close enough to experience it through most of the senses. If you are not able to find a natural object, at least choose an object that is not an objet d’art; in other words, for this activity a bent fork is better than a painting.
  2. Describe your object as fully as you can using some or all of these questions and any of your own.
    • Describe it through the senses—what is its color, shape, texture, smell, etc.? Be judicious in tasting!
    • Where did it come from? What is its natural habitat?
    • How did it get where you found it?
    • What is its use? Have you used it? Do you know someone else who has used it?
    • Do you know what drew it to you?

STOP AND WRITE!!

 

 

(Vincent Van Gogh–Two Cut Sunflowers)

  1. How does this object remind you of your mother or your father? (You can choose which.) If it doesn’t, that’s ok too—the negative space is rich for writing.

You might choose to use the poem and its title below (“Portrait of My X as a X”) as a model, or you may not. You don’t have to write a poem. You may find it more fruitful to write more directly about your parent in prose, referring to the object as a way to add metaphor and texture. There is no wrong way to do it—write whatever is coming up for you in relation to this object. I would love to see your work posted in the comments. You can click on one of the links above to find out more about the programs Annette and I offer through the Alzheimer’s Association. Information about my other workshops and retreats can be found here –or contact me.

Portrait of My Mother as a Dried Sunflower

The round shape of you
no longer round,
bent in on yourself
as if you are trying to find your way
back to the place you began.
You smell of dust
and still that scent
of only you.
I cannot see what you were
in what I have before me,
though in dreams you still stand
tallest in the field.
Every day a little
more of you
is gone. You are
beautiful.
You are so beautiful.
At the center,
a constellation of seeds
never planted.
(Pauletta Hansel, from Palindrome, Dos Madres Press, 2017)

Note: this is third in a  a series of posts about the writing of my most recent book of poems, Palindrome.  The book and most of the posts were written before my mother’s death in January 2017. My hope is that they might be of use to others writing about matters feared to be “too personal,” and of interest to caregivers and others concerned with (to quote Robert Gipe’s kind book jacket blurb) “what it means to be partial to someone.” Other posts: Too Personal: On Writing about My Mother’s Dementia and The Practice of Poetry: Poems as Love

 

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The Practice of Poetry: Poems as Love

You Never Were

the mother I wanted at the time
I had you. Always I was
swallowing down the longing
rising for the mother
come and gone. The one

whose cool hand nested
in a tangle of my curls. The one
whose hair was blueblack
crow, caught midflight.
Once gravity had settled you

to ground, and I away
from you, I hungered
for the mother whose shovel
shouldered through red clay
to bring up bulbs I’d plant,

still clinging southern soil, in my
midwestern garden. Today it is
the mother who remembers
this I want, even as I hover
over you, my fingers

feathering the dark threads
woven through your grey.
I would cling
to whatever does not change
if I could find it.

(Pauletta Hansel, from Palindrome, Dos Madres Press, 2017)

I wrote my first poem about my mother when I was sixteen. Becky, her sister, had a year earlier fallen into a coma and was not expected to live (although she did, and lived well, for nearly thirty more years.) In my poem, my mother was crying. She was mopping the floor of the daycare center she ran in the converted garage adjacent to our house, and she was crying. I had sat with this image and with my helplessness to soothe her for a year, and then I wrote the poem.

My next poems for my mother came some twenty years later, after I had emerged from a decade-long silence in my writing. These poems, many of which found their way into my first book, Divining, imagined my mother’s childhood growing up in a very rural Eastern Kentucky. I left a thin sheaf of them on the guest bed after a visit home. My mother called me, “Did you know you left some papers?”

“Yes,” I said. “I left them for you.”

It is an overstatement to say I learned to love my mother through writing about her. I already loved her, though it was sometimes an itchy, get this sweater-off-of-me sort of love. Mostly, we loved each other through things. Plants from her garden, leftovers in Cool Whip bowls, thrift store paintings and pottery that I cherished first because she gave them to me.

And the poems, too, were a sort of thing. When I think of them now, I imagine myself rubbing my hand tenderly over the words, careful not to smudge the ink. This girl who became my mother, here on my page! Later I wrote about the young mother who emerged from that girl. Always present, somewhat distant in her constant doing, a door I passed through.

I was shaken to discover that my mother had been hurt by these careful, tender poems of self-discovery. At the time she seemed touched by them. Her mouth had not made its compressed line of disapproval that I learned to watch for. The poems had seemed only to make her a little bashful.

By then, it was too late to ask her why. She was in the dementia unit of a nursing home, and now it was her writing that we, her children, found left for us, dated and numbered, 500+ pages of a sort of memoir in letters from nine years earlier, written first to our dead father—a grief memoir from the year after his death—but deeper in the pile, letters written directly to us.

Love, Larnie I called it, for how she signed her pages, enlisting a group of friends to help me type it all up to present as a gift to my siblings and niece. Too, sections of the memoir began to show up in the poems that I was already beginning to write about my mother’s decline:

IV. from “The Body / Above It”

She can’t remember why she’s there, or where
there is—some days it is the hospital
where she’d not let my father die. The chair
beside his bed became her own—she would
not have him wake alone to dark and those
red blinking lights. Small mercy, I suppose,
that she’s forgotten, now, his death at home.
We cleared their desk and found the words she wrote:
I see him in his chair cocooned in white—
the bedspread I crocheted. It seemed to me
he winked and smiled his little crooked smile.
I caught a wisp of his own scent as he
floated by and thought, no matter his poor
feet don’t work, he won’t need them anymore.

(Pauletta Hansel, from Palindrome, Dos Madres Press, 2017)

It is less of an overstatement to say that I learned—am continuing to learn, even after her death—to love the mother who spiraled through dementia through writing about her. Poetry is first the act of paying attention. And as a caregiver for my mother, I was a connoisseur. I could spot a UTI by the lean of her body in the wheelchair, the need to be lifted to the toilet by her forehead’s scrunch combined with tapping feet. I could enter her world through just a few garbled words of a story, recognizing, for example, when I was not me, but Becky:

My Mother Briefly Reunites With Her Dead Sister Becky in the Body of Me and Tells Us

Life is small,
but it isn’t.
You are so pretty, your hair
worn now like mine.
I love you.

( Pauletta Hansel, from Palindrome, Dos Madres Press, 2017)

or when there was a younger version of me in attendance to whom she had something to say:

from “My Mother Makes Her Amends”

She tells me now, pushing out each word
to make the first full sentences
I’ve heard from her in months,
eyes locked on mine to be sure
I hear her this time:
….

The light from her eyes
blinds me. I feel the rush
of time spooled backwards,
the elemental pull
of infant in her arms. The necessity
of tenderness makes mothers of us all.

( Pauletta Hansel, from Palindrome, Dos Madres Press, 2017)

I was with my mother in her nursing home almost daily, and much of what occurred there showed up on the page. Clearly, writing poems is not the only way to stay present enough to provide good care. But for me, the “practice of poetry”—the attentiveness to detail, the interest in (and acceptance of) both what is there and what lies beneath, the awareness of the self in relationship to the other, the ability to be both in the moment and an observer of that self and other that dwells there—was, at first, the only training I had.

In my imagination of those early poems about my mother, my hand soothes the page in a way that it could not the long-gone girl. Later, as I used my hands, my breath, my body to comfort my mother, I imagined she was both herself and her own lost words:

Self-Portrait as Ellipsis

I live at the cliff edge
of story, the pause
between language
and the hand’s blind reach.
In the photograph
I am the vee of light
between the shadows
two bodies make.
I am the words
you might have said.

(Pauletta Hansel, from Palindrome, Dos Madres Press, 2017)

 

Photograph by Zohreh Zand

Note: this is part of a series of posts about the writing of my most recent book of poems, Palindrome. The book and most of the posts were written before my mother’s death in January 2017. My hope is that they might be of use to others writing about matters feared to be “too personal,” and of interest to caregivers and others concerned with (to quote Robert Gipe’s kind book jacket blurb) “what it means to be partial to someone.”  Other posts in this series currently available include: Too Personal: On Writing about My Mother’s Dementia.

Too Personal: On Writing About My Mother’s Dementia

Too Personal

like the underside
of a cat’s tongue, like
someone else’s bathwater,
like bedsheets still warm, like
a spit-wet thumb flicking sleep
from the corner of your mother’s
eye, like an old hymn hummed
beneath curdled breath, like
ragged stitches pulled from
a wound. These poems are
too personal.

(Pauletta Hansel, from Palindrome, Dos Madres Press, 2017)

My greatest fear in releasing Palindrome, poems and prose about my mother’s dementia, is that no one would want to read a book this personal, a cat’s cradle woven between my mother’s life and my own.

My second greatest fear—that these personal poems might contain a universality too painful for anyone left holding dementia’s tangled skein.

“No more mother-in-nursing-home poems!” one writer friend cried out at the end of a weeklong conference of workshops and readings, though thankfully not specifically in response to my own, then unpublished book: “I can write those myself!”

And later, after its publication, a colleague influential in the local literary scene picked Palindrome up from my booth at a book fair to scan the blurbs on its back cover. “I can’t read this,” he said, practically dropping it back on the table. “It hits too close to home.”

And yet, this is what I do. I live my life and I write about it, uncovering its layers of meaning first through the act of paying attention, then through the words on the page, and finally through consideration of how the individual poems and prose pieces come together to make something new, something that is from my life, but that is not my life. Something that came through me, but that is not only mine.

I didn’t set out to write a book about being the caretaking daughter of a mother with dementia. I didn’t set out to be that daughter. But being both writer and daughter, when my mother’s dementia was what was given me, caring and writing is all that I knew to do. Had it come earlier in my life, things might have been different. But from the caring standpoint, I had been edging ever closer, playing minor roles in attending two friends in their final months and experiencing somewhat of a role reversal with my mother after my father died “suddenly” during a long illness and I helped her transition into her new life as widow and city dweller.

Writing and caring is what I did then, too. But this, the caring for and writing about my mother with dementia, required something both more and less of me: that is, it required both a new level of intimacy and a necessary distance.

The intimacy is, I think, obvious. My mother’s dementia unfettered me from certain physical and emotional boundaries between us and also from concern about what she might think of these poems about her:

My Mother Has Stopped Telling Me She Loves Me

Look at us now.
My mother finally bound
to her wheelchair (that’s how
they like it in the nursing home.)
She thinks she is walking,
one foot and then the other,
her lumbering four-wheeled
body follows and behind her
trails Miss Push-Me-Pull-Me—
that’s what she muttered at me yesterday,
a sudden spark that flew my meddling hands
down from the handles of her chair.
And even when we sit together,
fingers entwined, she pushes back away,
I pull her toward me,
memorize her face,
the folds beside her eyes,
the lips that purse now
for a kiss, a dab of oatmeal
in one corner. I say,
I love you, Mom
and then she’s off again;
we dangle one side and the other
of the teeter-totter air.

(Pauletta Hansel, from Palindrome, Dos Madres Press, 2017)

The distance is perhaps less observable. Let me name it first in metaphor. Though I am a meditation dropout, one concept that has always stayed with me is the awareness of the slight pause between inhaling and exhaling. Yes, breath is one continuous, mostly involuntary, movement. Yes, there exists a slight gap within that movement through which awareness can enter.

For me, writing is that gap. And by writing, I don’t just mean the act of putting words onto paper or screen, but the act of noticing what is, while knowing that words will someday be what I make of it. For the poems and prose that became Palindrome, the noticing and word-making occurred within smaller and smaller gaps. The poems and prose were written within the present tense of my mother’s spiral into dementia. And with that, a different kind of distance became necessary in order to not let the poems disintegrate into a kind of wail. I began for the first time in my life as a poet writing in form, first in syllabics (the limiting of syllables within lines and within the poem itself (I am especially fond of the 7×7, seven syllables within a seven line poem) and later in sonnets and palindromes (a poem which reads the same backward as forward.) These formal constructs gave me the necessary emotional distance to make poems from content in which I might have otherwise have drowned.

I first knew that I was capable of creating the book which became Palindrome when I wrote the sonnet sequence which is at the heart of its final section (the sequence itself was written two years before the book came out.) As writer, the pairing of the intimacy of the subject and the formality of craft created a balanced container for the work. As daughter, I also believe that the attentiveness I gave to the words supported the attentiveness I gave to my mother. I will write about the complimentary nature of caring and writing in a future post (read here.)

But what of those fears, that despite the craft, the subject itself limits my work? Fear, too, has its role, not to stop us, but to spur us to go deeper into our courage and our craft, asking always, and with new intensity, is this poem true, is it good enough. I offer this on the subject of the intersection of life and words:

Of What We Make Our Poems

Ink, of course, and flecks of skin
on paper remind us who we
are is hatched from who we were,
this film of self now covering
who we will be. Locks of our
mothers’ hair; whiskers plucked,
roots intact, from our fathers’ chins.

And too, our poems are like
our houses. They want more of
us than we had planned to give
them—this one begs for a new
room, a door where we’d framed a
window; another pushes against
rafters, opens us to sky.

No matter what we say, our
poems are not our children.
They quicken outside our bodies,
run from us before they speak.
One poet I knew made his
of river rock and the black
longing between stars. I’ll make

my poems of silence stitched with words.

(Pauletta Hansel, from Tangle, Dos Madres Press, 2015)

Collage © Sara Pearce

Note: this is part of a series of posts about the writing of my most recent book of poems, Palindrome. The book and most of the posts were written before my mother’s death in January 2017. My hope is that they might be of use to others writing about matters feared to be “too personal,” and of interest to caregivers and others concerned with (to quote Robert Gipe’s kind book jacket blurb) “what it means to be partial to someone.” Posts in this series currently available include: The Practice of Poetry: Poems as Love.

 

 

 

Cincinnati: A Song of Ourselves

On January 2, 2018 a group of poets braved the bitter cold to perform a choral reading of our poem for the City as the new Cincinnati City Council was sworn in. Photographs of the event will follow, but now, on behalf of Cincinnati’s poets, I offer you:

Cincinnati: A Song of Ourselves

By some calculations,
fifty-two equals one
city, seven hills and
the ever-rivering lines of the Ohio
to bound it.
This city.
One that chose long ago to outgrow itself.
Cut the hill, see the western shadowed buildings
pulsing urgent in the city street pentameter
above a hidden unfinished underground
of metal and glass, arteries, entrails,
all sorts of plumbing, rivers and viaducts,
ad infinitum.

O City, know your poetry –
river, hills, valley in which you shine and sing –
from your smoke and mirrors.
Listen, City, to your song, the poetry gumbo
becoming to its soul made lively,
becoming more.

Voting with your mouth is useful
in the process of the seven hungers,
but in the shadow of heavy tannéd hill-folds,
lines grow longer, queued for a light from the West,
from some reborn magi of the deep pockets.
Each empty stare is a warning, and a way to begin.
Each tattered leaf, a scrap of time
you can never put back on the tree.
Instead of pretending to be colorblind,
open your eyes to the rainbow of color in this city,
like an advent calendar,
a pleasant surprise
hidden behind each window.
Feed the hungry, leave the gleanings,
open doors, embrace the ragged and wealthy and rough hewn
to make a resting place for all
who wish to call us home.
Do not let our smallness hem you in.

“I drag my feet unintentionally / this is to say / I am not a broom
but a city of stars illuminated by strangers,
welcomed by arts and parks and poems and outstretched arms.
The pride of rainbow banners point the way
to a city for all.”

And if all art is political,
we’ve been given a lot to work with.
The OSU/U-M rivalry
can’t begin to rival the Skyline/Gold Star one.
And in the neighborhood murdered by medicine,
giant buildings saunter
where our houses once stood still
and hugged us.

With just enough of the year left to plant daffodils,
winter cold reminds us
that energy is made of ice and glass, too.
And if we breathe, will we stoke the fire, or blow it out?

I am here.
You are here.
We don’t trust each other,
not as lungs go,
but someone was god-like and left us no choice.
(Move thru it, move thru it—that’s the only way out.)
And so, a blessing on us,
a goodnight Tiara shimmering in the dark above
one city,
ours,
spread among hills and vales,
villes and gates, parks and woods and sides
and dales and heights:
May the exquisite tones and turns of our words
wear nothing more than small hills, river-licked;
contain the lands and bodies of water we cross;
form a tight braid to root us in kindness, grace
and joy for all we are,
for all we hope to be.

Composed by Cincinnati Poet Laureate Pauletta Hansel with words by Ellen Austin-Li, Michael Burnham, John Cruze, Ella Davis, Mark Flanigan, Sean M. Foster, Karen George, Richard Hague, Pauletta Hansel, Annie Hinkle, Bucky Ignatius, Theresa Kulbaga, Elese Monet, Rhonda Pettit, Lynn Robbins, Raya Schweitzer, Chuck Stringer, Kelly Thomas, Hilda Weaver, Dick Westheimer, Tyrone Williams and Zohreh Zand.

If Springer School Was a Poem

Springer School is a Cincinnati treasure. For more than 45 years, Springer School and Center has carried out its mission to empower students with learning disabilities to lead successful lives. In November, I got to see the process up close when I wrote poems with Springer’s middle school students.  Using Sara Holbrook’s fabulous teaching poem, “If I Were a Poem” as an example, we talked about the power of poetry to let readers experience the world as the poet did, through images using the five senses. And then, of course, we expressed our own poetic powers on the page (and in some cases, directly onto the computer screen.) The following is a composite of lines from all seven classes I visited:

If We Were Poems

If I were a poem
I would be the clickety-clack
of a speeding steam train
leaving the station.
If I were a poem
I would be a starry night pouring down
on your paper like a jar of fireflies
you are setting free.
If I were a poem
I would be a cake
and when someone blows out my candles
they will become older.
I would be a rack of ribs
and live at Montgomery Inn.
I would be the taste of BeanBoozled®
because you never know
what you’re going to get.
If I were a poem
I would not leave you on a battlefield.
I would show you how
to travel time through time.
If I were a poem
I would be the swirling of the tornado.
I would be a basketball, the swish sound
as the crowd goes wild.
I would be a hawk with a secret poem
for the world to hear.
If I were a poem
I would make everyone laugh.
I would be a computer running my code
as you mindlessly type on my keys.
If I were a poem,
I will make you have chills up your spine
when you dip your feet in the pool.
If I were a poem
I would be the book
you do not want to put down.

Springer School Middle School Students
with Cincinnati Poet Laureate Pauletta Hansel

What would you do if you were a poem?

To read more about my visit to Springer, click here.

This is my last post of the year! If you would like to hear more about what I have been up to, and recharge your own creative juices, check out  Kelly Thomas’ Renew Series, featuring ten writers and others who will share our insights + personal experiences around everything from optimizing your creative practice, productivity hacks, publishing and everything in between. Interviews are with Magdalena Waz, Teri Foltz, Stacy Sims, Michael Winkfield, Andrea Scarpino, Katie Titi, Aimee Nezhukumatahil, Jenny Tosner, Manuel Iris and me! They run through December 20. (Mine will be released on December 18. You can sign up here: (it’s free to join + participate.)

After the beginning of the year, look for a series of blogs about the writing process, many focused on how I wrote my latest book of poems and prose, Palindrome, written in response to my mother’s dementia.

I hope to see you in the New Year!

Pauletta

I am From Artsy Fartsy Saturdays

Where are you from? I have led former Kentucky Poet Laureate George Ella Lyon’s “I am from” writing activity with dozens of groups now, from preschool students to seniors, and I always learn something new. Last month I had the privilege of working with Artsy Fartsy Saturdays, the arts non-profit/ministry Cathy Barney and friends do with neighborhood kids in subsidized housing in Milford. Artsy Fartsy is celebrating 5 years of vibrant creative community by developing a book about their journey, with the assistance of ArtsWave, Dos Madres Press and a whole slew of great volunteers. And, of course, the talented young people themselves. More information can be found here  and here , but first take this sneak peek at Artsy Fartsy’s creative minds at work!

We Are From Artsy Fartsy

I’m from where people
care about how they look
and girls’ hair is always wrapped up.
I am from basketball—I am a forward
who dominates the paint.
I’m from Pike Street.
It smells good and it looks good
and it’s quiet.
I am from the big tree outside.
I heard leaves falling.
I’m from the falling of leaves
and the smell of trees,
from the shining sun on glistening water,
with a turtle walking on dried leaves.
I am from animation and vanilla,
the smell of pumpkin spice latte
and the taste of chocolate chip cookies
dipped in milk.
I’m from touching my stuffed animals
and how soft they are.
I’m from where everyone is active
and the girls are always full of drama.
I am from Idaho.
I am from Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas,
California, Colorado, Connecticut…
I am from no limits.
I am from multiple lifestyles and adventure.
I am from flowers and leaves that blow about,
from the laughs and jokes of my family,
that fall from the family tree.
I am from knowing how to say Thanksgiving
in sign language.
Sometimes I feel sad,
but no matter what,
I can’t wait to see what happens
next in the adventure of life.
I am from Milford, Ohio,
and I love flowers, cats and dogs.
This is where I am from.

The Writers of Artsy Fartsy Saturdays
(with Cincinnati Poet Laureate Pauletta Hansel)

Note: Check out “I am From” poems from across the country and submit your own here!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Where We’re From

I had the privilege last month of working with the poets and performers who make up WordPlay Cincy’s Scribe Poetry Team.  Led by spoken word artist, Desirae Hosley, Cincy Scribes is a positive, upbeat community to explore identity, culture, current events and the media through poetry and creative self-expression. I loved their commitment to words—and to each other. Check out all of WordPlay’s work on their website. Here’s the poem we made.

We Are From WordPlay

Where are you from?
you ask.
I am from tears and mess and compromise.
I am from Cincinnati, the land of granite,
from sunken eyelids and bony hips.
I am from those places caught
between past and present lies,
from the split moment terrors
I get when I think of how my rapist is free.
I am from the powerful words
my mother made sure were in my lungs
since she knew that with the color of my skin,
people wouldn’t listen when I had to speak.
I am from a place where an orange runs a country—
no tea, no shade, but isn’t that funny.
I am from a crowd surf
of different hands and ideas.
In this beautiful fictional far off place,
every day is a gift to live and grow,
borders dissolved and no one owns the land.
I am from sticky rice and vinegar,
from teaching fish to dance,
from individuality and the correlation
between different and unique.
I am from the crack in the picture frame
that lets you reach inside to touch it.

WordPlay Cincy Scribes: Anais, Cat, Daphne, Keshawn, Lilly, and Sol
September 16, 2017
with Cincinnati Poet Laureate Pauletta Hansel

(Look for our poem, too, on the I am From Project’s Facebook Page.  This national project, co-founded by former Kentucky Poet Laureate George Ella Lyon, aims to build a quilt, a scroll, a multimedia display, a swell of voices, a collection of poems “in celebration of the diversity and beauty of who we are.”)

I will take this opportunity, too, to share a little about “where I’m from” in my tenure as Cincinnati’s first Poet Laureate! As I enter my final six months in this role, I invite you to view a list of all we have done together during this time, with links to the many poems co-created with Cincinnati’s writers, here.