Today
started off with prayer with friends.
Then breakfast with my wife, at a new place. Pulling weeds in the garden, transplanting a
poblano pepper, and the last starts of parsley, cilantro and two plants unknown.
It felt good to sweat in the hot sun. It
felt better to take a shower and then a nap, with ice on my back. Stretching, reading. Wishing friends “Feliz
Cumpleaños” on Face Book.
Then we
went to the Riverview Theater—the best in Minneapolis. Best popcorn and cheapest. Art Deco style. We didn’t go to see a movie, but the World
Cup match between the US and France. I
was one of the few Viva la France fans there, amidst legions of Los
Americanos. It was a good game, too loud
at times. But the US fans did smile when
I stood up and cheered the French goal.
On the way
out, I stopped in a long line for the bathroom.
Two boys struck up a conversation with me. The first asked me “Were you
for France?”! Did it show somehow? He said that he was for France too. His friend liked both sides (can’t lose
then). We talked about the U11 league they
played in, what kind of strategy worked best in the game, how far they had to
travel.
Then
home. Cleaned my room. Read a couple
things in The New Yorker.
Took my afternoon nap. I wanted
to sit on a folding chair under our little gingko tree to work on some poems,
but the neighbor’s mowing his lawn, and my allergies are screaming. So here I am, on the porch, smelling the grass
and trying not to sneeze.
I often
write—when I write!—about challenging and poignant themes. But today, I just want to thank God for this
day—maybe not the greatest day (Quel dommage les Bleus ont perdu!) but a good day. A blessed day.
Here’s a
poem from my book that I read at the No Mic Open Mic last night, about a good
day a ways back:
KASHAPIWI
On a split
rock lies a split fish,
coaxed out
of the deep by the dancing
of
Stephen’s finger. He scrapes her scales
with his
teeth as he prays to her spirit.
The sun
splits a whisper of birch,
speaks the
season to their hearts.
They bleed
a wordless yes. The wind
pulls a
thin dance of breath along the silent lake.
Thomas
folds the tent like he’s making
a paper
airplane, floats it into the canoe.
I stir the
coffee in its aluminum prison,
wait with
the hot butter for the fish.
The fog of
our breath is all we speak.
It is
morning, September,
and there
is nothing left unopened.
We have
slept deep, deep in the earth,
and now we
rise to eat and to journey on.
As the fish
grows into our flesh,
we glide
onto water in our sea-going soul,
and head
for home, for parts unknown.
Be
beauty. Be justice. Have a good day (seriously!)
Patrick
