Is Coffee.

Pebble by Zbigniew Herbert

The pebble
is a perfect creature

equal to itself
mindful of its limits

filled exactly
with a pebbly meaning

with a scent that does not remind one of anything
does not frighten anything away does not arouse desire

its ardour and coldness
are just and full of dignity

I feel a heavy remorse
when I hold it in my hand
and its noble body
is permeated by false warmth

- Pebbles cannot be tamed
to the end they will look at us
with a calm and very clear eye

Second Nature

I must be enjoying my sixth of seventh life by now,
watching the orange, early morning sun
gleam thickly through the fabric of an evergreen

as the smoke churns dark and sap-like up,
then wafts away from the chimneyspout.
In the past , when I heard people talk about

how a place becomes a part of you,
I always thought that they were being metaphorical,
but right now I can feel this orange and tender light

taking a position inside of me-
painting a stripe of phosphorescent,
pumpkin-colored warmth along one wall

of the inside of my skull. I can feel
the washed-out scarlet of these winter fields
becoming an ingredient

of my personality,
the way that in the noisy urban center
of every molecule of chlorophyll,

one atom of magnesium resides,
as quiet and essential as a church.
Seated in appreciation of this calm,

in the easy chair of my appreciation,
I have a view of what has brought me here-
not just the landscapes I’ve survived,

not just the blind motion of the waves,
but what I grasped and made a part of what I am-
a second nature, scavenged from those things

I chose to love or fear.
There was a sycamore in Arizona I cared
enough about to take into my heart, and now

I hear the wind moving through its branches
just below my clavicle. There was a kiss
that changed the history of my mouth- kiss

that was a courtship, marriage and divorce
sandwiched in the thirty-second intersection
of her lips and mine. When I look

at all the odds and ends I’m made of,
I think   some kind of
irrationally-proportioned

Frankenstein,
on pilgrimage to god knows where,
humming a song as he lumbers through the forest

of the middle of his life.
His left eye still remembers
a sunset that it saw in 1964; his right

beholds the snow upon a branch
with so much childish love
it threatens continually to break

the rockpile of his heart.
But he keeps going on,
half-thrilled and half-appalled

by his own strangeness- wondering what god
he could be fashioned in the image of?
What handiwork of what mad scientist?

Problems with Hurricanes
by Victor Hernández Cruz
A campesino looked at the air And told me: With hurricanes it's not the wind or the noise or the water. I'll tell you he said: it's the mangoes, avocados Green plantains and bananas flying into town like projectiles. How would your family feel if they had to tell The generations that you got killed by a flying Banana. Death by drowning has honor If the wind picked you up and slammed you Against a mountain boulder This would not carry shame But to suffer a mango smashing Your skull or a plantain hitting your Temple at 70 miles per hour is the ultimate disgrace. The campesino takes off his hat— As a sign of respect toward the fury of the wind And says: Don't worry about the noise Don't worry about the water Don't worry about the wind— If you are going out beware of mangoes And all such beautiful sweet things.

A Hundred Voices

She sings to the sky
hands reaching to raise the ceiling
chin as high as her smile
shaking her head
swaying her hips
bringing her voice
up and  down pressing
the soles of her feet
into the ground
saying " I am here
for you, I am all
my voice can grasp"
praying to God
as loud as her lepard print shirt
as loud as the clack of her red heels
with her arms thrown through the air
catching spirits
of a hundred voices- this Sunday
no microphones were needed.

http://www.shopliftwindchimes.com/jesse.html

 

Jesse*
(*Edited for brevity, clarity and privacy)

JESSE WROTE:

Dear Rives,
My name is Jesse and I am a student at _______ High School. I just wanted to tell you that you are my favorite poet. I especially like your poem "Kite." I probably have it memorized from watching Def Poetry Jam so many times, but I don't think I have the guts to perform it at Speech and Debate. [SMILEY FACE]

If you have a few moments, I was wondering if you could fill out an interview for my AP English class. The assignment is to electronically interview a living author, journalist or poet and I would like to interview you as a slam poet to show that it is just as much an art form as the other ones. If you don't have the time, I understand, but I would appreciate it if you could respond. Thank you.

Sincerely,
Jesse.

RIVES WROTE:

Hello Jesse,
Thanks for your e-mail and your compliments. I'm glad you like "Kite"--it's one of my favorites. I tried a PG-13 version once, but it turned out just about as intimate as a house plant.

I have filled out your "Living Authors" interview, but with a twist. There were 11 questions. I answered seven of them, at random, honestly. I answered one of them, also at random, dishonestly, but I won't tell you which one. And I've left three of the responses blank. I request that you MAKE UP my answers to the remaining three questions and turn them in as part of the final assignment. You don't have to tell anyone that you made up the answers, but if you do, you don't have to tell anyone which ones.
Good luck and have fun.

JESSE WROTE:

Dear Rives,
Thank you so much for taking the time to fill out the interview. It will be a challenge to make up your answers! I definitely won't procrastinate!

JESSE WROTE:

Dear Rives,
My teacher, Mrs. Tedesco, doesn't exactly believe me about the interview. I printed out your email, but I think she thinks I made it up myself because I haven't told her which answers you left blank. Should I just tell her? Or would it be at all possible for me to give her your address so she can inquire herself? I know I have already taken up a lot of your time, but this is our final project after we took the AP exam.

RIVES WROTE:

Hey Jesse--check the website.

[ON MAY 28 I POSTED THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE ON THE SHOPLIFTWINDCHIMES.COM BLOG SECTION, WHICH IS PUBLIC, BUT ONLY I HAVE ACCESS TO ITS CONTENT.]

CONFIDENTIAL TO MRS. T______:
Your student, Jesse, sent a polite, grammatical and earnest request to this website along with your "Author Interview." I answered 7 of the questions honestly, I made up one of my answers, and I instructed Jesse to make up my answers for the remaining three (random) questions. I also told Jesse he didn't need to tell anyone, including you, which answers were invented.

So he's not making it up. That part of the story, I mean.

MRS. TEDESCO WROTE:

Dear Rives,
I should inform you first off that Jesse is Jessica, although she does go by just "J-e-s-s-e." She is a very intelligent student, although she and the rest of the graduating seniors seem to be having trouble focusing lately, I wonder why! I will also tell you that she is thoroughly enjoying the small controversy surrounding this assignment.

And what an interesting assignment it turned out to be! Thank you for your responses and for the way you engaged Jesse. I am attaching a copy of your interview with her, for your own curiosity. I was also hoping you could tell me which of the answers were made up--for my own curiosity! This would also help me greatly in my grading of Jesse for this assignment.

Thank you again for your time.

Sincerely,
K____ Tedesco.

RIVES WROTE:

Hello Jesse--
Mrs. Tedesco has just sent me a copy of our interview. It appears that you have made up my responses to FOUR of the questions, not three. In addition, you have altered, sometimes considerably, my answers to three OTHER questions.

Is that what I'm looking at?

JESSE WROTE:

Dear Rives,
I am writing to apologize. I guess I got caught up in you asking me to make up answers, and I didn't think you would mind. I also felt that I needed to change some of your wording so that it would match the answers I wrote. I also took out the Herman Hesse parts in #3 and #4 because I thought his name looked too much like "Jesse" and I didn't want Mrs. Tedesco to assume that those were the ones I made up. But that doesn't excuse my behavior, and I'm sorry if I offended you.

Please accept my apology.

Sincerely,
Jesse

p.s. I am female.

RIVES WROTE:

Dear Jesse--
Apology accepted, but honestly: none needed! Personally, I think your tactic is a pretty apt way to wrap up high school. And it's certainly in the spirit of the assignment. NOT the one Mrs. Tedesco gave you, but the one I gave you. As a journalist, you are thoroughly unethical. As a fabulist (look it up), you are fabulous.

But what do you want me to tell Mrs. Tedesco? Write soon--I need to get back to her.

JESSE WROTE:

I'm glad you're not pissed off. Mrs. Tedesco isn't pissed off either, but she DOES want to know which three answers I made up. I guess you can tell her if you want. I wouldn't mind if you didn't tell her about the answers I changed though.

RIVES WROTE:

Yeah, I bet you wouldn't.

RIVES WROTE:

Dear Mrs. Tedesco, Thank you for sending me a copy of my interview with Jesse--it was very enlightening. As for which three answers she made up--I'm going to have to stick with Jesse on this one. Whatever she discloses is fine by me.

MRS. TEDESCO WROTE:

Dear Rives,
I thought for some reason you might be an easier nut to crack than a seventeen-year-old honor student, but I guess I was wrong! Any chance of you telling me which answer YOU made up? One answer?

RIVES WROTE:

Dear Mrs. Tedesco,
Aw, golly. No can do.

JESSE WROTE:

Dear Rives,
Mrs. Tedesco just told me that you told her which answers I made up, but she seemed like she might be joking. Was she joking?

RIVES WROTE:

Dear Jesse, Well, Mrs. Tedesco MIGHT be joking, but she's definitely lying, and it's serves you right, smarty-pants. Me, I kept mum all the way.

But hey, I was thinking: I sent you a total of eight answers, one of which I made up. Or TOLD you I made up. You ditched or rewrote four of those. That leaves four total answers that you didn't touch. Why not pick three of the four and tell Mrs. Tedeseco that those were the answers you made up. As a bonus, tell her that the fourth answer was the one that I told you that I made up.

JESSE WROTE:

Dear Rives, That's a great idea! Maybe now she'll give me my grade and I can graduate! Just kidding!!!

I think I'll tell her you made up #6. That's the one I've always thought you made up anyway. Just out of curiosity--am I right? I know you don't have to tell me, but it WOULD make a nice graduation present...

RIVES WROTE:

Hey Jesse,
#6. Made it up. You were right. Happy graduation, and good luck at B____ in the fall.

JESSE WROTE:

Dear Rives,

Summer is here and life is crazy, but I'm loving it. How about you ;)?

I have been thinking about something for a while, so I thought I would ask. Was #6 REALLY the answer you made up, or were you just telling me that?

RIVES WROTE:

Dear Jesse,
You'll never know.

JESSE WROTE:

I guess that's true.

RIVES WROTE:

Hey Jesse,
I'VE been thinking: Was there ever really a Mrs. Tedesco?

MRS. TEDESCO WROTE:

Dear Rives,
You'll never know.

RIVES WROTE:

I guess that's true.

Buying Stock

"...The use of condoms offers substantial protection, but does not
guarantee total protection and that while
there is no evidence that deep kissing has resulted in
transfer of the virus, no one can say that such transmission
would be absolutely impossible."

--The Surgeon General, 1987

I know you won't mind if I ask you to put this on.

It's for your protection as well as mine--Wait.

Wait.  Here, before we rush into anything

I've bought a condom for each one of your fingers. And here--

just a minute--Open up.

I'll help you put this one on, over your tongue.

I was thinking:

If we leave these two rolled, you can wear them

as patches over your eyes. Partners have been known to cry,

shed tears, bodily fluids, at all this trust, at even the thought

of this closeness.

So I have not posted anything of my own for a while. So here you are some things of my own:


Shock
    “you cannot unglaze an eye” Emily Dickinson        

No smoke signal
No message
    in the sand
        in a bottle

No message-
    fingered into the fog
        in your bathroom mirror

No Blinker
    to echo - right - right -
        to point out the way

No Blinker -
    conversing with others
        behind you - in front
you see
nothing
you signal
no one.




Use Me

If you use me, don’t
just use me
throw me away
or put me on
a shelf
behind all the other things
you use;

Place me on your night-
stand, your coffee table,
in the bathroom
magazine rack-
places where you use
up your time.

Wallace Stevens

Waving Adieu, Adieu, Adieu

That would be waving and that would be crying,
Crying and shouting and meaning farewell,
Farewell in the eyes and farewell at the centre,
Just to stand still without moving a hand.

In a world without heaven to follow, the stops
Would be endings, more poignant than partings, profounder,
And that would be saying farewell, repeating farewell,
Just to be there and just to behold.

To be one's singular self, to despise
The being that yielded so little, acquired
So little, too little to care, to turn
to the ever-jubilant weather, to sip

One's cup and never to say a word,
Or to sleep or just to lie there still,
Just to be there, just to be beheld,
That would be bidding farewell, be bidding farewell.

One likes to practice the thing. They practice,
Enough, for heaven. Ever-jubilant,
What is there here but weather, what spirit
Have I except it comes from the sun?

Full Moon

The door is open,
the cricket is singing.
Are you going around naked
in the fields?

     Like an immortal water,
going in and out of everything.
Are you going around naked
in the air?

     The basil is not asleep,
the ant is busy.
Are you going around naked
in the house?


I took off petal after petal

I took off petal after petal, as if you were a rose,
in order to see your soul,
and I didn't see it.

However, everything around--
horizons of fields and oceans--
everything, even what was infinite,
was filled with a perfume,
immense and living.


Ideal Epitaph For a Sailor

One must search the heavens
to fine your grave.
Your death is raining from the stars.
The tombstone does not weigh on you;
it is a universe of dreams.
Unknown, you are
in everything-- sky, sea, and land--dead.


I am not I

I am not I.
               I am this one
walking beside me whom I do not see,
whom at times I manage to visit,
and whom at other times I forget;
the one who remains silent while I talk,
the one who forgives, sweet, when I hate,
the one who takes a walk when I am indoors,
the one who will remain standing when I die.

 

To Billy Sunday

You come along... tearing your shirt... yelling
        about Jesus.
      I want to know... what the hell... you
	know about Jesus.

Jesus had a way of talking softly and everybody
	except a few bankers and higher-ups among the
	con men of Jerusalem liked to have this Jesus
	around because he never made any fake passes
	and everything he said went and he helped the
	sick and gave the people hope.

You come along squirting words at us, shaking
	your fist and calling us damn fools so fierce the
	froth of your own spit slobbers over your lips --
	always blabbing we're all going to hell straight
	off and you know all about it.

I've read Jesus' words.  I know what he said.  You
	don't throw any scare into me.  I've got your
	number.  I know how much you know about
	Jesus.

He never came near clean people or dirty people
	but they felt cleaner because he came along.  It
	was your crowd of bankers and business men
	and lawyers that hired the sluggers and murderers
	who put Jesus out of the running.

I say it was the same bunch that's backing you that
	nailed the nails into the hands of this Jesus of
	Nazareth.  He had lined up against him the
	same crooks and strong-arm men now lined up
	with you paying your way.

This Jesus guy was good to look at, smelled good,
	listened good.  He threw out something fresh
	and beautiful from the skin of his body and the
	touch of his hands wherever he passed along.

You, Billy Sunday, put a smut on every human
	blossom that comes within reach of your rotten
	breath belching about hell-fire and hiccuping
	about this man who lived a clean life in Galilee.

When are you going to quit making the carpenters
	build emergency hospitals for women and girls
	driven crazy with wrecked nerves from your
	goddam gibberish about Jesus -- I put it to you
	again:  What the hell do you know about Jesus?

Go ahead and bust all the chairs you want to.
	Smash a whole wagon load of furniture at every
	performance.  Turn sixty somersaults and stand
	on your nutty head.  If it wasn't for the way
	you scare women and kids, I'd feel sorry for
	you and pass the hat.

I like to wash a good four-flusher work but not
	when he starts people to puking and calling for
	the doctors.

I like a man that's got guts and can pull off a great
	original performance, but you -- hell, you're only
	a bughouse peddler of second-hand gospel --
	you're only shoving out a phony imitation of
	the goods this Jesus guy told us ought to be free
	as air and sunlight.

Sometimes I wonder what sort of pups born from
	mongrel bitches there are in the world less
	heroic than you.

You tell people living in shanties Jesus is going to
	fix it up all right with them by giving them
	mansions in the skies after they're dead and the
	worms have eaten 'em.

You tell $6 a week department store girls all they
	need is Jesus; you take a steel trust wop, dead
	without having lived, gray and shrunken at
	forty years of age, and you tell him to look at
	Jesus on the cross and he'll be all right.

You tell poor people they don't need any more
	money on pay day and even if it's fierce to be
	out of a job, Jesus'll fix that all right, all right --
	all they gotta do is take Jesus the way you say.

I'm telling you this Jesus guy wouldn't stand for
	the stuff you're handing out.  Jesus played it
	different.  The bankers and corporation lawyers
	of Jerusalem got their sluggers and murderers
	to go after Jesus just because Jesus wouldn't
	play their game.  He didn't sit in with the big
	thieves.

I don't want a lot of gab from the bunkshooter in
	my religion.

I won't take my religion from a man who never
	works except with his mouth and never cherishes
	a memory except the face of the woman on the
	American silver dollar.

I ask you to come through and show me where
	you're pouring out the blood of your life.

I've been in this suburb of Jerusalem they call
	Golgotha, where they nailed Him, and I know if the
	story is straight it was real blood ran from his
	hand and the nail-holes, and it was real blood
	spurted out where the spear of the Roman
	soldier rammed in between the ribs of this Jesus
	of Nazareth.

	-- Carl Sandburg, 1915

I definately have a soft spot for Robin Williams flics...Dead Poets Society, Good Morning Vietnam, One Hour Photo, Aladin, Happy Feet, etc. This weekend I was watching Patch Adams, a cheesy and sentimental light comedy about a doctor who attempts to improve the quality of life around him (like I said its cheesy). While watching this there are several references to Walt Whitman and poetry in general. In particular he keeps trying to complete this one poem that starts:

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride,

So, I went looking for it.  It is not Walt Whitman, but Pablo Neruda.  Its beautiful:

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. I love you as certain things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that never blooms, but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers. Thanks to your love a certain fragrance, risen darkly from the earth, lives darkly in my body. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride, so I love you because I know no other way than this: where "I" does not exist, nor "you," So close that your hand on my chest is my hand, So close that your eyes close and I fall asleep. -Pablo Neruda

I was looking for a poem that could knock me on my ass, something with meat to it, something I would remember.  This I will not forget

Grandfather Says
by Ai
"Sit in my hand." I'm ten. I can't see him, but I hear him breathing in the dark. It's after dinner playtime. We're outside, hidden by trees and shrubbery. He calls it hide-and-seek, but only my little sister seeks us as we hide and she can't find us, as grandfather picks me up and rubs his hands between my legs. I only feel a vague stirring at the edge of my consciousness. I don't know what it is, but I like it. It gives me pleasure that I can't identify. It's not like eating candy, but it's just as bad, because I had to lie to grandmother when she asked, "What do you do out there?" "Where?" I answered. Then I said, "Oh, play hide-and-seek." She looked hard at me, then she said, "That was the last time. I'm stopping that game." So it ended and I forgot. Ten years passed, thirtyfive, when I began to reconstruct the past. When I asked myself why I was attracted to men who disgusted me I traveled back through time to the dark and heavy breathing part of my life I thought was gone, but it had only sunk from view into the quicksand of my mind. It was pulling me down and there I found grandfather waiting, his hand outstretched to lift me up, naked and wet where he rubbed me. "I'll do anything for you," he whispered, "but let you go." And I cried, "Yes," then "No." "I don't understand how you can do this to me. I'm only ten years old," and he said, "That's old enough to know."

miss rosie

when I watch you 

wrapped up like garbage 

sitting, surrounded by the smell 

of too old potato peels 

or

when I watch you 

in your old man's shoes 

with the little toe cut out 

sitting, waiting for your mind 

like next week's grocery 

I say

when I watch you

you wet brown bag of a woman 

who used to be the best looking gal in Georgia

used to be called the Georgia Rose

I stand up

through your destruction

I stand up

~Lucille Clifton

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why (Sonnet XLIII)
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. Thus in winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone, I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more.

If I've been absent (aside from my computer being broken) its because of Lynda Hull.  I have been lost in her Collected Poems done by Mark Doty. Which everyone needs to get a copy of!  Its out of Greywolf Press but I'd just buy it off of Half.com or something- although totally worth the $15.  So this is one of my favorite right now:

Night Waitress

Reflected in the plate glass, the pies
look like clouds drifting off my shoulder.
I'm telling myself my face has character,
no beauty. It's my mother's Slavic face.
She washed the floor on hands and knees
below the Black Madonna, praying
to her god of sorrows and visions
who's not here tonight when I lay out the plates,
small planets, the cups and moons of saucers.
At this hour the men all look
as if they'd never had mothers.
They do not see me. I bring the cups.
I bring the silver. There's a man
who leans over the jukebox nightly
pressing the combinations
of numbers. I would not stop him
if he touched me, but it's only songs
of risky love he leans into. The cook sings
with the jukebox, a moan and sizzle
into the grill. One his forehead
a tattooed cross furrows,
diminished when he frowns. He sings words
dragged up from the bottom of his lungs.
I want a song that rolls
through the night like a big Cadillac
past factories to the refineries
squatting on the bay, round and shiny
as the coffee urn warming my palm.
Sometimes when coffee cruises my mind
visiting the most remote way stations,
I think of my room as a calm arrival
each book and lamp in its place. The calendar
on my wall predicts no disaster
only another white square waiting
to be filled like the desire that fills
jail cells, the old arrest
that makes me stare out the window or want
to try every bar down the street.
When I walk out of here in the morning
my mouth is bitter with sleeplessness.
Men surge to the factories and I'm too tired
to look. Fingers grip lunch box handles,
belt buckles gleam, wind riffles my uniform
and it's not romantic hen the sun unlids
the end of the avenue. I'm fading
in the morning's insinuations
collecting in the crevices of buildings,
in wrinkles, in every fault
of this frail machinery.

Wholly Shit was that the craziest experience of my life!  SO AWESOME!  And I mean really awesome.  I met so many people and learned so much about poetry, the writing community and myself.  Really if you didn't go- You NEED to next year when it is in NYC!

Sooooo On the plane- one of the many planes, that sucked ass- why all the turbulance!!?!?!?
Anywho, well I wrote a poem, this is new so naturally I think its OK, and well in a couple weeks I regret ever posting this....soooo here it is a new one for you all.  (Also read the collaborative poems me, josh, leah and carolyn wrote on Josh's page!)



In the Unlikely Event of a Water Landing

We’re flying to Atlanta on a turbulant course
throuh the clouds. They seem to have extinguished the surface,
white fluffy wet dust, covering the landscape.  We hover

with our uneasyness. Cottage cheese valley’s, a horizon
to look out over the wing  for. Where are the Care Bears I wonder,
wishing they will not stare me down from the sky.

So I've had a few complaints about my inactivity on Live Journal (this is namely refering to Devon Branca, but saying a few makes it sound better.)  So I've mustered up all I got and I wrote a poem about Matt calling and telling me he burned his couch to the ground. 


Long Distance Phone Call


The cliche says: some poeple leave fooprints on your heart.
I have minutes to pay for on my cell phone plan.

You called to live out the laughter of distruction
I know this because you said electricity

was to blame for burning your couch, you say
you kicked it.  I imagine you wanted to scream

Put it out! Put it out! Some one put the fire out! and you sprayed
gritting your teeth with a smile for faulty wiring- you said

there was fire! You put it out-
you aimed extinguishing the flames-

whitedust whip creamed - it was giggled all of over the room.
It was on your knees as you scrubbed it away. I wished for you

to describe for me how you ate breakfast the next morning,
smirking at the scorches, fire’s footprint left on the wall.

Minutes pass with a shock, you said “fire” and it traveled the airwaves
streached across a million neighborhoods.

Hear beats were racing on our breaths
when we heard each others laughter

like the crackle through a wire
like through the one that ruduced your couch to ash.

I’m with my dog reading poetry
in the park

his leash
pressed down by my foot
he won’t go no where
he will whimper
wish he was running
short hybrid legs of a bassett
mixed dog with the rottweiler.
His face scares them, walking the stretch
of the leash, going only so far
to stare back at me
pen furious on the page
could your paws grasp a pencil
I imagine, you could write
furiously about your hard times
on th estreet found on the tracks,
how you traveled 3 hrs in my car to my home
threw up over and over with the car experience
you’ve never had
a leash that you would be held on
that you’d pull taught
and go no further
to stop and look up at me
on the bench writing poetry
about you writing poetry
in the park.

Always Tears

Nana its our birthday, and Mom’s crying again
I know its my fault, I know that its because there are
four hand knit dolls sitting on my day bed,
each with their painted on smiles
that I won’t ever recollect my first impression of each,
the blue, the red, the orange, the yellow
one made for me every year of our birthday.