Summer

is a laughing child in a small plastic pool

on wet grass that will soon scorch to yellow,

too long to be cut with the push mower.

A shrieking kid standing by

bandaid flapping in the damp breeze

sunburn pulling lips down,

hot tears evaporating into the bright cloudless day.

Summer is the smell of banana boat lotion and the warmth

of my hair against the back of my neck.

Cheap white wine mingling with ice cubes,

sweating it out in a jelly jar with Fred Flinstone's face.

running across wet grass

falling, slipping, laughing then screeching because

summer means not holding it in

summer is the beginning of all things.

Summer is a rash from the lifejacket that rides up with the strap

and pancakes for dinner and sleeping without blankets

towels that never quite dry

and living on sun.

Summer is made of days that don't end.

Hours made of minutes made of seconds that

tick tick tick between blades of grass

standing upright and tall

Fragile, transparent and so green.

This is a simple drawing I did of my daughter by the baby pool in our backyard.

The Understanding

It wasn't the first time the plate had been empty, but by god it would be the last.

Harold surveyed the empty expanse of tin, then glanced up, cocking his right eye toward the big house. They were in there all right. All four of them. It was their morning feeding time. They like to sleep well past the rise of the sun, then awake with a rousing hubbub, all their wired items ringing, shouting, and clanging at the same time.

Now they were seated in the large glass area, around the communal platter. Eating gargantuan amounts of mushed up something-or-other. Well, wasn't that nice?

Harold bent his knees, and lifted up off the plate, off the pedestal, and with a few flaps landed on the railing outside the glass. They didn't notice. They rarely did, so consumed were they with the cacophany of their own lives. The small ones banged metal instruments on the wood, singing their terrible, mocking song. The older ones chittered to their young, cutting their feed into small pieces, but allowing them - grotesquely - to digest it all on their own.

Harold hopped a bit closer down the railing, tilted his head so that the other eye now glared in toward the large female. It was she who was in charge of his plate.

Every few days or so, she could (usually) be counted on to bang open the hatch to their dwelling, carrying sacks full of food which she placed into metal cannisters, then stopping by Harold's plate with a handful of seed.

In return, it had been established that Harold would live out the winter in the giant oak tree nearby. He often sang for the family, when they ventured outdoors. Complicated songs that he spent hours composing, melodies which bespoke the coldness of the season, the beauty of the dying sun, and - GODDAMN IT! Was it so hard to remember his seed?

Harold hopped up and down on the railing a few more times, fluffing his feathers a bit, but they did not turn to look. Desperate, he launched at the glass,managing to get several good beak taps in, his toes scratching for purchase on the cold, smooth surface, till he landed in a heap at the bottom.

Harold stared up at the blue sky, unable to move. His heart beat loudly in his chest, causing his whole body to quiver.

Bang! The hatch had been opened, and soon, Harold saw the family's faces, hovering over him. Harold lay prone, waiting. Gathering strength. The adults twittered to each other, while the fledglings leaned in closer. Harold grew nervous.

But then the youngest, a male, gently laid a flat object near Harold, nearly as big as the bird. It was food. It smelled of seeds, and grains, and berries. It was round and flat, and Harold nibbled at it. It was delicious. Like a million perfect seeds had been regurgitated into a fluffy cake by his own mother herself, god rest her soul. Harold ate.

That afternoon, as Harold sang his sunset concerto toward the family's wooden nest, his metal tray full to overflowing with seeds, he wished he had another of those lovely foodcakes.

But he never did.

Here is an old drawing that I did when I lived in Chicago.

It's November

again.

Bare branches stare through windows and

outside people walk; footsteps on cold concrete

so loud without leaves or sun.

The furnace is on but cold seems to linger

in corners and just under the floor

I run a bath.

The sound of water as it rushes

luxury of pulling out salts, oils, trashy book.

Heat envelops

I dip my head under

feeling it all the way to my follicles, to the insides of my ears

then emerge, breathing in steam,

drape the washcloth over my heart

and escape to a mystery not my own.

Too soon, drafts of the house draw warmth from the bath

water turns tepid

and I'm left shivering, knees to chest

cold wetness dripping down

Not ready to get out yet,

and still so cold.

Well here it is. The first art post to our old zine, Wee. My husband and I recently lost our baby in utero during the eighth month of pregnancy. This was a drawing that came out of our sadness.

Noel