Napo 6, Napo 7, and TIL!

Howdy from San Antonio! There I am, giving my reading at my induction to the Texas Institute of Letters. Last night, I read my poems beneath the stars in La Villita to a crowd of supportive and inspirational writers. It was amazing. My former professor, Steve Schneider, was also inducted into the organization, along with another talented poet whom I just met, Sheryl Luna. Last night was the poets' ceremony. This morning, we had a delightful breakfast and a ceremony for the children and young adult authors. Tonight, the main event will take place, a banquet at The Menger Hotel. Needless to say, I've been busy.

Fortunately, I had written one "extra" poem on April 1st, so I'm counting that as my poem for yesterday. I'll paste an excerpt of it below. At some point soon, it will be posted on This City is a Poem in its entirety.

And today, I slipped away from the festivities into my hotel room for some much needed peace, quiet, and reflection. And a nap. And some writing. So, below, I'll share my NAPO 6 and 7.

Napo 6 (Excerpt)

Inescapable Sky

You can’t escape the Texas sky,

the outstretched arms of the horizon,

always looming just beyond:

in Houston, where the buildings tower

over everything and scrape

the surface of her skin, in Marfa,

where at dusk, she shimmers lovely

in a gown of stars, reveals

bits of mystery by night

that make you realize how small

you worries are, and in the valley,

where heaven sings a morning chorus,

filled with trilling kisskadees,

harmonizing mockingbirds,

and loudly squawking flocks of grackles. 

Napo 7

Today's prompt was to write about a number. I wrote about 31 because that's my age. This poem is still really rough, but I think I arrive somewhere interesting. I like the idea of comparing days to coins, and I think that's a metaphor I'll continue to develop as I revise and rework this poem. 

Poem for the number 31

I am thirty, plus one.

Always, plus one.

That plus sign reminding me

Of the equation we’re taught,

The equation within our flesh

Of addition, not subtraction

From the world.

What will I add?

A month doesn’t get any longer

Than thirty-one days.

It may be  the end

of a sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet May,

Or the termination of a painful September.

One foot in youth, one foot in middle-age,

I spend my days responsibly and recklessly at once.

Sometimes, I finger hours in my pocket,

Careful where to spend each one,

And, when filled with love, I toss them

Like pennies into the fountain of youth,

And laugh when they sink to the bottom

Like tiny disappointments of a wish

That doesn’t come true in the way you expect.

At thirty-one, my body keeps up

Its charade of immortality.

Each morning, I’m blessed to rise.

Each night, I’m blessed to lie

My body down before the darkness,

A sacrifice of time in exchange

For another day. At thirty-one,

My ovaries take another gamble,

Throw the dice on the craps board,

Bet it all because there’s nothing left

To lose. They roll, reveal their face,

And I moan at the red results, again,

Again, again, again, again. At thirty-one,

I’ve been through this before. At thirty-one,

I’ll go through it again, in another month

Of a womb as empty as a drifter’s pocket

And a heart as full as a drifter’s dream,

And I’ll keep searching for the day,

The month, the year when my life

Will change, when I’ll win that jackpot

And hold the sweetest riches in my arms,

The warm weight heavier than gold

Or cash or anything else at thirty-one

I dream about when I close my eyes.

Today, I’m thirty-one. I’m young

Enough to dream. I’m old enough

To lie awake and wonder.