Little Love #1: Frozen Leftovers

I've decided, for my own selfish reasons, to begin a modest little series of "little loves:" minor things that make me disproportionately happy. I don't spend enough time celebrating these things, I don't think, so I'm trying to change that, and to share my tiny excitements with all of you.

I could, of course, just embrace my own Goop-iness and call this what it is—a stupid little gratitude journal—but I've got too much pride for that. So here we go.

Little Love Number One: Defrosting and eating six-month old frozen leftovers 

A few days ago, I dug into my freezer and pulled out the verenika I'd been saving. Verenika, in case I caught you unawares, is a gift from on high: little pierogi-type dumplings filled with cottage cheese and covered in ham gravy. They're a cornerstone of Mennonite cuisine, and I used to eat them every year as a kid. My parents would take us to Hutchinson, Kansas, for the annual MCC Sale, and we'd load up on the stuff. My sister and I went with our mom in April, and we both froze some to eat later on.

I'd held out for half a year, and now my wait is over. I'm eager for the small comfort of this food, this piece of my youth and my family history. I know they won't be as good as they are fresh, but verenika are like fries: even when they're bad, they're still pretty good.

Birthright

"Birthright AKA My Father Explains How We Got Here"

I’m not sure how many more times
you want to hear your own myth

The Blue Moon spit you out
which I thought was your first mistake
Son you only get a few resurrections
and you used one already
in a night full of red wings
and light dangling in steam
but hey sometimes we don’t have a choice
in what blood we rode in on

Anyway the cardinal came to the window
and I knew
somewhere something I cared about
was spilling

So I take off running after your mother
a scarlet prayer unraveling behind me
“God, I hope he looks like his mama”

I got in just before the blades
sharp things brought you into this world
sharp things might be what keep you here

they cleaved your mother’s stomach
like a fresh snowfall
you came from scars boy
if nothing else you get that from me

 - by Julian Randall, from Vinyl Poetry (July 2016)

Hisen

- "Hisen" by Susumu Yokota, from Sakura (1999)

A Small Stretch

From the backlog of things I never posted:

Grand Junction, Colorado; July 2014

Concrete Seconds

- "Concrete Seconds" by Pinback, from Blue Screen Life (2001)

Genealogy

"Genealogy"

This stream took a shorter course—
a thread of water that makes oasis

out of mud, in pooling,
does not aspire to lake. To river, leave

the forest, the clamorous wild.
I cannot. Wherever I am,

I am here, nonsensical, rhapsodic,
stock-still as the trees. Trickling

never floods, furrows its meager path
through the forest floor.

There will always be a root
too thirsty, moss that only swallows

and spreads. Primordial home, I am dying
from love of you. Were I tuber or quillwort,

the last layer of leaves that starts the dirt
or the meekest pond,

I would absorb everything.
I would drown. Water makes song

of erratic forms, and I hear the living
push back branches, wander off trail.

- by Jennifer Chang, from The History of Anonymity (2008)

Jazz for Lovers, Solitude for Me

- "Jazz for Lovers, Solitude for Me" by The Marshmallow Kisses, from Ciao! Baby (2011)

It's Hard to Keep a Clean Shirt Clean

 "It's Hard to Keep a Clean Shirt Clean"

Poem for Sriram Shamasunder
And All of Poetry for the People 

It’s a sunlit morning
with jasmine blooming
easily
and a drove of robin redbreasts
diving into the ivy covering
what used to be
a backyard fence
or doves shoving aside
the birch tree leaves
when
a young man walks among
the flowers
to my doorway
where he knocks
then stands still
brilliant in a clean white shirt

He lifts a soft fist
to that door
and knocks again

He’s come to say this
was or that
was
not
and what’s
anyone of us to do
about what’s done
what’s past
but prickling salt to sting
our eyes

What’s anyone of us to do
about what’s done

And 7-month-old Bingo
puppy leaps
and hits
that clean white shirt
with muddy paw
prints here
and here and there

And what’s anyone of us to do
about what’s done
I say I’ll wash the shirt
no problem
two times through
the delicate blue cycle
of an old machine
the shirt spins in the soapy
suds and spins in rinse
and spins
and spins out dry 
not clean

still marked by accidents
by energy of whatever serious or trifling cause
the shirt stays dirty
from that puppy’s paws

I take that fine white shirt
from India
the threads as soft as baby
fingers weaving them
together
and I wash that shirt
between
between the knuckles of my own
two hands
I scrub and rub that shirt
to take the dirty
markings
out

At the pocket
and around the shoulder seam
and on both sleeves
the dirt the paw
prints tantalize my soap
my water my sweat
equity
invested in the restoration
of a clean white shirt

And on the eleventh try
I see no more
no anything unfortunate
no dirt

I hold the limp fine
cloth
between the faucet stream
of water as transparent
as a wish the moon stayed out
all day

How small it has become!
That clean white shirt!
How delicate!
How slight!
How like a soft fist knocking on my door!
And now I hang the shirt
to dry
as slowly as it needs
the air
to work its way
with everything

It’s clean.
A clean white shirt
nobody wanted to spoil
or soil
that shirt
much cleaner now but also
not the same
as the first before that shirt
got hit got hurt
not perfect
anymore
just beautiful

a clean white shirt

It’s hard to keep a clean shirt clean.

 - by June Jordan, from Directed by Desire: The Collected Poems of June Jordan (2005)

"I Like Beer"

Julia Child and Jacques Pépin tear it up and make some sammies on Julia and Jacques Cooking at Home. This whole video is a gem, but the true highlight comes near the end, at 3:36.

Enjoy.