Napowrimo 7

 

Admiring Dan Brady’s “My Father-in-Law in His Garden”

 

I appreciate the simplicity of this poem. When I first read it, I didn’t really understand it. This is the kind of poem that asks for at least a second read, which is no problem because it’s so short. The short lines also make the reader slow down, savor them.

 

On the surface, it’s about a man watching his father-in-law garden. We learn a lot about the kind of man the father-in-law is through the little details the speaker offers: he’s a gardener, someone who loves what he grows, tends to, nurtures.

 

I’m starting to wonder if perhaps his daughter is another being he nurtures, loves. Maybe that’s the reason for the “years / and the silence” between the father-in-law and the speaker.

 

The last stanza opens the open up beyond the literal and into the realm of the figurative. The garden is the father-in-law’s heart, or it offers a glimpse at it anyway. A gruff and quiet man gardening. It’s a lovely tribute that allows the speaker to “see / inside the rind / of his heart”. The last line darkens the poem just a bit, resisting sentimentality: “but not far.”

 

So the garden is a representation of the father-in-law’s heart. What are some tangible representations of my own heart, or the hearts of those I love? Those are some good questions that might lead to some interesting poetry.

 

My own suegra loves to garden, too, but she doesn’t carefully plant things in neat rows. She prefers to let her garden grow wild and fierce and so much green. That’s a representation of the kind of person she is, too, very passionate, unpredictable, easy to get lost in. That could be an idea for a poem … for another day.

 

NAPO’s prompt for today is to write about an alter ego of mine. I’m thinking about a doe. Or a marigold. Or a teardrop. Again, more ideas for poems for other days.

As I was writing and thinking, B came into the office to tell me he's going to take a shower. He had just finished checking my car's oil, tires, fluids, and such, and his hands were stained with grease. That's how he says "I love you," by the way. I mean, he says it in other ways, too, but this is a consistent one.  That's another poem for another day, actually, too :)

But here's my poem for today, inspired by the Brady poem, the steady sound of water, and the smell of his body wash wafting through our little home. 

My Husband in the Shower

 

He closes the door behind him.

All I hear is the sound of the water

Falling like rain on his lean body,

Washing the day’s dirt, the salt,

the sweat from his skin

Like sins, down the drain.

 

I listen from the kitchen—

Have heard this chorus of water,

The hum of his electric razor,

The soft sigh at the end of it all

More times than I can count.

 

Soon, he’ll emerge, drenched

In the scent of sandalwood

And not himself. Soon, I’ll touch

The skin on his cheek, suddenly

Soft like a child’s, stripped

Of the bristles of manhood.

Soon, I’ll see that glistening—

For just a moment, not for long.