Summer Summary

Here is mine & I'd read yours

Greetings!

Every August, I have the insane urge to put everything I have been feeling/doing/thinking during the past months of the farming season into ONE SINGLE POEM. Which is ridiculous considering how much living I do during the summer months. I pack so much in! (And yes, if you’re wondering, the muchness of it all does get to be too much, quite often, thankyouverymuch.)

I am aware, of course, of the general much-ness of the 30s and 40s. These tend to be generally big, full years — raising children, advancing in or changing our careers, making big home moves, when we learn what it means to test our homes for radon, lease a car, have end-of-life talks, etc. These are dense, adult eras. So much happens in these years, and also in the days that make up these years. Sometimes it’s hard to fathom it, and to deal with that unfathomableness, I write poems like this one. It has everything stuffed into it. Listen or read it, or do both at the same time—that would really be the “more is more” move.

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That Summer

That was the summer of the cracked front tooth. The humidity. The early rains, and then the lack. The fever blister, the felled willows over the parsley, the garlic gone to flower in the field. When the tomatoes came, they weren’t ours, but still, I sliced them, added basil, added salt and oil. My work watch was slow, my house clock fast. I was given two housedresses and wore them after showers. I pulled weeds until my shoulders bruised, until my short thumbs stiffened, my nails streaked black. My hair was short, my jaw was clenched, my body tanned, I lay down in worship on the bed at night, the light of the longest days brightening the room until late. I could’ve slept for days but was never allowed. The dishes spread like an invasive vine across the countertops. Only one of each type of wine glass remained. The important thing is not to get too attached to your mugs. Your life will break them, even the best ones—the best ones first. My new delphiniums stunned me speechless, then were ravaged by a storm; the hydrangeas advertised a leisure I could never touch. We placed the chairs in pairs, in half circles, in the yard. We fixed the gifted fire pit. We left the porch alone, a scene of brokenness. But behold the new wooden swing on yellow string on the limb of the maple; behold the golden light we made our name out of, the pink morning light that means the smoke is here, the fading light the deer will bathe in; behold the spider-bitten toe, red and ringing like an alarm clock in a cartoon. O volunteer tulsi, o volunteer chamomile, o sweetgrass overrun by grass less sweet, I never didn’t savor the creeping thyme beneath my feet. I sneezed and blessed the shirts and socks and napkins, stacked and ready in the drawer. I told myself to everyone around me, witnessed some go dry as lupine seeds loosened in their pods. There was a lack of Birkenstocks that summer, a new gray car, eight new green bowls, new green shorts, new mold, new pronouns, a new harvester we named and labeled, laughing. I wore lace-up boots and bowed to the yard’s new milkweed, then let loose the woodchuck too long trapped. It was I who survived the appraising stare of visitors, it was I with the flair of a handkerchief well-chosen, in work jeans with the perfect place to clip my walkie. We shared the little brown coat, a pot of tea, the bedsheet changes. We brought each other water, hot water bottles, wine in cups, underwear unfolded from the basket, untold touches, little snacks. In the mirror, my nakedness was just as good as any year. I barely touched the mower, except to move it from my way. I thought of money in chunks as large as sheets of autumn honeycomb. We ate potato chips cooked in beef tallow, we ate grilled salmon, pint after pint of blueberries, a platter then another of caprese. There was no time to read until I devoured the entire pile like a child starved. There was ice cream made with rosy tea, books discussed outside, pizzas on the grill, an elder toad caught twice up in the clover patch, larger than my palm. Newly-painted lines in town, a bubble maker for no reason, no pigs to call our own. Smoky skies, the smoke-filled valley, smoky salsa made with corn and peaches. My toe kept swelling & took my foot into the thrall, my hips talked back, I washed the trash I collected in the pockets of my pants, I wore a helmet, wore two collared shirts when necessary, was never seen without a hat, watched a bear cub rush across the road. I made a good time out of nothing but pigweed pulled in company, made fun of myself, misstepped and nearly fell, misstepped and fell into the ditch and bled, got folksy with all sorts of folx, started saying “good heavens” and meant it, truly.  And I meant business, too: wrote checks and mailed them, paid wages, acquired an ice maker, front faced all the drinks, reordered the chocolate, the pilsners, the popcorn, the bags of greens, prayed for rain and sales and good reviews. I read the arts section, the book review, the styles section, the magazines, books from the library, the free pile, the little free library.  I worked so hard to make up for going on vacation my body forgot everything it had learned on vacation. I swore to no one in particular, wore a bun way high, thought about living to one hundred, paired long skirts with tiny shirts, refilled my water bottle, took the tincture, took the other tinctures, swallowed pills, massaged my own neck with balm, cried over coffee, cried over killings, cried out in surprise at a full size carrot found in the field, which means we must have seeded it, somehow.  There were hornets by the woodpile, wasps in the outhouse roof, yellowjackets in the forest meadow, in the shop pillar. I killed them with a spraying type of death that comes in cans. Rodents died everywhere for no reason and for food. The salamander in the farm road survived, the two blue herons crossed our sky path as we stood in awe. Was I good at what I called my jobs? Was I worthy? Did I keep my promises? Did I swim enough, was I respectful, did I create a healthy place to live and work, was I too loud, did I interrupt too much, did I shock the ones I love with my commitment to creating something worth living for, living off, passing on, praising in, on this one green slip of earth? I did. And so I fell to bed as summer falls to earth. And just when I thought summer would take me, it took itself instead—the first of September, and the birds had fled.

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BOOKS: I have read so many books since I last wrote to you that I can’t review them all! I’m not bragging, this is just how I spend my (scant) leisure time. I encourage you to reply to this newsletter if you’ve read any of them/want to read any of them. Nothing brings me more joy than book chats.

All the Way to the River by Elizabeth Gilbert (once I stopped reading her bad poems, I enjoyed this much more & learned about myself through it!)
Seduction Theory by Emily Adrian (LOVED IT!!!! Please go read. Thanks for the rec, dad!)
Alphabetical Diaries by Sheli Heti (every sentence is a poetry prompt; September book club pick)
Atmosphere by Taylor Jenkins Reid (lesbian astronaut in the 80s yes plz)
Untamed by Gleonnon Doyle (don’t @ me I enjoyed it)
Kick the Latch by Katherine Scanlon (voice-driven vignettes; one of my favorites of the year even though it is about horses, something I do not know/care about [sorry my horse people, you know I love you])
Fierce Attachments by Vivian Gornick (June book club pick, a great memoir)
Dry Season by Melissa Febos (excellently written book about her year of celibacy/her own overall self-development)
The Road to Tender Hearts by Annie Hartnett (July book club pick, very very fun)
Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead by Olga Tokarczuk (couldn’t get through it)
Everything the poet Chen Chen has written (I looooooove u Chen Chen)
The Wren, The Wren by Anne Enright (wow)
Happily by Sabrina Ora Mark (mixed thoughts)
Ecstasy by Alex Dimitrov (upon my second reading of this, I realized I was doing what the people call a “hate read”)
What To Do When You Get Dumped by Suzy Hopkins & Hallie Bateman (not getting a divorce, just love this mom-daughter duo)
North Woods by Daniel Mason (liked it! A lot!)
Grief Is For People by Sloane Crosley (I have many feelings about Sloane, but overall I appreciated this book about being alive after her friend took his life)
The Wedding People by Alison Espach (fun! go read it!)
Intermezzo by Sally Rooney (did it need to be that long?)

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Hope your fall season has started off sparkly—

LOVE!
Taylor