Walks

7 April
The short take on today’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “…Kyle Dargan suggests writing out a list of all of your different layers of identity….ways you could be described or lenses you could be viewed through…Now write a poem….”

Walks
For Jean-François, with love AND in chronological order

That chafing wet crotch schlep home
after playing at Maribeth’s, just around the corner
but oh-so-far-away in my Mary Janes. (Almost made it.)

My pointy-toed ballerina-entrance on stage
to Tchaikovsky’s Pas de Deux
as one of a dozen swan, in a purple tutu, in a hot gym.

At camp, that tentative trust walk,
eyes closed, holding my bunkmate’s elbow,
from the campfire, through the pines, all the way to the flagpole.

That glide-stride that made boys shout,
Got any fries with that shake?
from passing pickups in Clarksburg.

On Sandpiper Beach, weaving
in and out of the waves,
in a bikini, carefree and easy.

A stumble bump drunk jaunt to make curfew at NMH. (Almost made it.)

Marching into The Nashua Telegraph
for that job interview: stomach in, back straight,
hand-out-ready-to-shake, trying not to fart. (Almost made it.)

The Maid of Honor Stroll
down the aisle, to Pachelbel’s Canon.
Step touch, step touch, step touch…

On the Island, arm in arm in arm, down the field
to the ledge by the Bay, to you, in the heart
of my ribbonned family circle, to tie our knot. (Soooo glad I made it.)

That pregnant waddle around The Peak,
squeezing your hand through pauses for contractions and
stupefaction on that cloudless July hinge-of-a-day.

Saunters to bring our babies to blessed burpdom.
Later, tippy toe checks to watch them sleep.
The next day (I swear!) hand in hand with them, to and from school.

That wobbly-kneed walk-run, with Donna
down the runway, from that smoking
two-propeller Havilland in Pokara. (Just made it.)

Start. Stop. Start Stop. Luna-walks to poopdom.
Parading and waving through the streets of Zermatt.
Loaded-arm walks from the marché.

One step at a time. Many walks, many places.
No idea where all these steps are taking me —
just grateful I wound up on this path with you.

(Sing it, Barry! Looks like we made it!)

 

Written by Elizabeth Boquet, April 2018

2 thoughts on “Walks

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