I know they will someday soon see everything and they will know about everything and they will no longer take never mind for an answer
My children are so young
I had planned for this Letter to lead with a different poem by Carrie Fountain, Time to Be the Fine Line of Light, but due to a quirk in the way my article saver and poets.org interact (which usually displays the poem before or after the intended one) I saw Will You? and knew it had to be the one, this time.
I discovered her this week, Carrie Fountain, and maybe fell in love a little. How could I not, when Eating the Avocado contains this bright stanza:
Last night we fed her some of the avocado I’ve just
finished eating while writing this poem.
Her first food. I thought my heart might burst,
knowing she would no longer be made
entirely of me, flesh of my flesh. Startled
in her amusing way by the idea of eating,
she tried to take it in, but her mouth
pushed it out. And my heart did burst.
I have a deep affection for the poets, especially mother-poets, who write this kind of life-vignette poetry. It's the kind of thing I always want to be writing. I want to share all of it, every scrap I can find, but I'll leave you to do some of your own explorations.
And listen: I know, with the improving weather and the ever-lengthening duration of this thing that many people are ready to get back to life, but it's not safe out there yet, people. It's not. If your area doesn't have it yet, trust me when I tell you that you don't want to have to contend with it arriving before they're ready. True normal really only comes when we get a vaccine, and until then, my life is soundtracked with ambulance sirens that never let me forget what's at stake. Do what you have to do, but don't rush it. We have the immense privilege of bearing responsibility for one another right now. Don't waste the opportunity.
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