Not named

 

Not named

I am young and the

Breeze sighs through the trees like a 

Longing I’ve not named

— olivia gwyn

Listening to the Carpenters “Sing”

 

Listening to the Carpenters “Sing”

I don’t remember you— thick framed glasses, laugh lines and hands that never saw wrinkles.

I don’t remember you when I smell the red pillow you made full of pine that we bring out in December, year after absent year. I don’t remember you when I see my dad’s eyes get blurry, his sister across the room at Christmas.

I don’t remember you when my dad pauses to wipe his eyes reading a poem on Mother’s Day or the end of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. I don’t remember you when I walk by It’s a Small World in Magic Kingdom or pass a breast cancer treatment center.

I don’t remember you when I’m listening to The Carpenters “Sing” and get sad. I don’t remember you when I close my eyes and try.

I don’t remember you when I think of your mother’s hands, hands that I knew, that knew me better and longer than yours ever did. Your hands that could have held me, held me enough times that we lost count.

I don’t remember you, but I imagine that you were safe and good and you delighted. That you took joy by the face and kissed it there on the lips in front of the kitchen window. 

I still don’t remember you on Easter, the day you left, even when I smell the daffodils and hear the birds and see how the death is turned to life again.

Still, I remember you when I think of Jesus, holding you— “Talitha cumi”— with human, broken hands.

— olivia gwyn

I thought I had to beg

I thought I had to beg

When I was a child I used to

worry about the technicalities of it all–

wondering if I'd get left behind or forgotten

More so, that I'd be tossed aside

unwanted and unknown like 

I'd always feared, that's why

When I got any chance

I tried painfully to be good

the fear lodged in my chest

But now I see the clouds break

and I get a little thrill, remembering

what I actually wanted as a child

I dreamed of being able to fly,

of galloping bare back across an open field

the wind making weird shapes of my shirt

I dreamed of pretty gowns

and jumping in the ocean

and a body that never got tired

I dreamed of being friends with the deer

finding the end of the rainbow, sleeping on clouds

and someone laughing at my jokes

But now I see how wrong I was about you

how you tell me it's not my fault

how you gave me these dreams to hold

And in time I remember you like a father 

watching his only daughter ride laughing 

into the wind on the horse you bought her

You smile because you know 

what it's like to be denied, 

forgotten, crushed underfoot

And you delight in dreams come true 

and the pounding of a heart beating for joy

remembering how to be alive for the thrill of it

I believe in you like I believed in the 

cotton candy clouds and the gentleness

of the spring shower, the barrenness of

The desert under a glorious sunrise

you will not rest until you 

have made everything new

I see how you have made me tender

handing me my dreams, even better than I remembered,

when all along I thought I had to beg

                            – olivia gwyn

I have learned to go back

I have learned to go back

I have learned to go back in time

To the pink striped sheets 

Wrapped around my small warm body

The light coming in slanted

Through the blinds

I enter my body as I wake up 

Slowly with a fear already 

Wedged deep in my chest

It is too quiet and I know 

I am too young

To be alone like this

I have learned to walk 

Across the scratched wooden floors

Towards the glass front door

Bare feet crossing the muddy yard

To the gravel road 

I watch my face crumple as 

I round the corner and see

Their figures in the distance

The crushing relief of realizing—

I have learned to go back to this gravel road

The school bus far away

My face bleary eyed

My family walking home, towards me

The panicked beat of my heart—

I am not alone

I am not alone

I am not alone

— olivia gwyn 

Look stranger

 

Look, stranger

Look, stranger

See the brown field grow wings

With the setting of the flaming sun

Stand under the rising of the 

Patient, florescent moon

Breathe the sweet smell of hay bales

The crisp dying leaves

Feel the air cooling above the radiating asphalt

Where your feet have hardened

Listen to the aliveness of it all

None of them have anywhere better to be

A doe moves from behind the darkening tree line

And stills as the bats flap with fervor

The cicadas are speaking in tongues

And the crickets are praying with their bodies

And the wind is whispering wonder between the trees

And where are you going and

Why aren't you waiting

Who gets to hold a night like this

In the palm of their sweaty, lonely hand

To hold it like a secret forever

– olivia gwyn

I will not be afraid anymore

And in that day

When it is finished

When you walk once forevermore

Out of that grave

I will walk with you 

And where you walk I will also walk 
And I will bow and rise and lift my hands and sing

I will sing and dance
And all will be redeemed 

And where you sit I will sit 

By your side with you 
And we will eat together 

As friends
And there will be no more tears  
Only you 

And I will not be afraid anymore

And what a miracle 
My God
That you are Good

That I will see your face

That I am yours

And you are mine

And I will know

And I will not be afraid anymore

It is July

It is July

It’s the cool draft of dusk on my bare arms

The heaviness of the summer air draped across my chest 

It’s the buzz of the cicadas and the intimate calls of the geese

It’s the haze of the lilac sky in the distance, the blue fog creeping up

in its wake 

It is the silence, the ripples in the water, the language of the quiet

It is July and I am learning that I no longer need to be afraid 

                                – olivia gwyn

keep my garden full

Keep my garden full

And of course I am waiting

For a letter from you to come

Whisking into my mailbox

Your ringtone sounding ridiculous

At the dinner party

You are not at

A voice memo to keep me

Company on the highway

At night surrounded by

Strangers surrounded by

The missing of someone else

Of course I think about 

The tree house

Of course I dream

Of our feet tucked in

The couch, holding

Our tea cups as they 

Cool, listening as

The other cries

Of course I remember

When you stepped in the thorns

The sound of your voice

Reading from your notebook

The taste of the blackberries

Rolled in white sugar

Staining our fingers with laughter

With no guilt

Keira Knightley crosses the

Screen in a corset and

Of course I am thinking of

The pita bread we ate while

The candles burned down 

And the movie played out

I see a mare in the field

And think of you when

She tosses her head

Our wet hair 

Soaks the pillow

As we sprawl out on

The comforter

Hunched over our

Paperbacks bent at the crease

You are like a garden

We are always returning

To each other

Filling our arms

When the other's garden is dry

I slice the tomatoes

And salt them

And life is luxurious

Again

I come empty handed

And leave remembering

How to make tomato soup

You are waiting at the door

To go and I feel like a child

Again

How can I hide your 

School books

Pillow

Laptop

Keys

Here

So you'll have to come back

Again

What can I say?

Hey, did I ever tell you–

It is Thursday and 

I am driving home with no music on

Wondering at how ugly 

The highway is on the way home

Why not just cut it in half

Make the journey quicker

Keep my garden full

For the rest of my life

– olivia gwyn

Do not look away

 

Do not look away

O, scallops and buttercups and 

    foxtails!

What would we do if you were 

    taken away?

O, barbershops and bookends and

    love seats! 

O, backyard trees and jasmine climbing

    up the porch and your mother's old

    rocking chair from your dad's mom!

What have we done?

I listen to the birds

    and the cars on the road and

    scratch my mosquito bites

And I wonder how we can watch

    through the windows, yawning

    on our couches as

A man loses his daughter and

    his father and his best friend

    since elementary school and

    see his wife buried in the ruins

    of his home he paid everything for

I wonder how we let this happen

    year after year

    after decade

    after war

    after war

    after war

Saying it is for the best

    saying it is worth it

    and they are not 

We know nothing of it

    we are fools

    the blind leading the blind

Leading the masses 

    who watch wide-eyed

    with searing clarity 

As their barber 

    and piano teacher

    and mom

    and barista 

    are blown to p

        ie 

                   ce  s

While we tell them to stay 

    still

Do you remember

    your 8th grade

    English teacher?

Did you watch her die?

    Try to find someone to take 

    you to your best friend's funeral?

Could you hear the birds

    see the buttercups

    taste the honeysuckle

    feel the dust of the rubble

    settle in your skin and your

    teeth and your gut?

O, pediatric doctors and socked feet and

    my own bathroom stocked with pads!

O, being able to speak to my mom, 

    having a bed and a bird feeder 

    outside my window!

Do not let my knees grow weak

Do not let me become callous

    and silent and faithless

I sigh and breathe deep

    no alarms ringing

    and I have paper to write

And I am begging you 

    to look them in the eyes

    and tell them what you mean

    what they mean

Which is to say

    I am begging you

    to look yourself in the eyes

    and do not look away

– olivia gwyn

Yes, I have been rich / It's just no one let me know

Yes, I have been rich / It's just no one let me know

I have not studied

Abroad in Oxford

But I have graduated

At home to the applause

Of my mom, my degree not yet got in the mail

My feet have not 

Skimmed the sand

Of the Sahara at dusk

But they have bruised

And healed on the gravel road

Back home, pacing back and forth 

I have not heard the rush

Of New York or Broadway

But I have heard my friends

Soliloquy to me

The ill-planned symphony

Of my sisters in the back

My radio not yet fixed

I have not felt

The winds of Alaska

But I have felt the breeze 

Play with the sun and the shadows

On my shoulders

I have not gambled on

The Strip in LA

But I have gambled on you

I have stripped for you 

And I have won more than I could've dreamed

I haven't run my feet

Across Persian rugs in Isfahan

But I have run my feet 

Over the thick rug

We thrifted and rolled

Out on our tiny porch

I feel a dent in my finger

Where I have been pressing too hard

Against my thumb as I write

I start to stare at the robin 

Who just landed so cordially

On the drain pipe

I lean back over my notebook

Conscious of how I will have bad posture

When I'm older (I already do)

I crane my neck still

And my hair falls in my eyes

My hands are dry and

How tired I am of looking 

At other peoples things

It gives me a headache

Instead I think I will stretch

My feet out and put them up

I think I will sit in the sun

And not think about my posture

I think instead I will count 

My pennies, my fortune

The sun glaring on my eyelashes

My glass empty beside me

My socked feet stretching

The birds commentating

My notebook filling up

It is always like this

I am tired of finding pretty ways to name them

They are too busy to listen in the first place

I think I will go breathe them in instead

Swallow them whole

Spread generously on my toast

Hang them in my window

And drink them in with my eyes

– olivia gwyn

Peeling boiled eggs

 

Peeling boiled eggs

Sometimes I am caught by surprise

While leaning on the kitchen sink

Peeling boiled eggs 

Thinking of your frame bent over the kitchen counter

The touch of your soft wrinkled skin in my hand

The snapping of the fresh green beans 

The sinking into your couch

The sitting on cement steps 

The beep of the microwave

The smell of daffodils in spring

You telling me how beautiful I look

Even when you couldn't see

Knowing you believed every word you said

Some days

I am still waiting to come home to you on a late summer night when the sky is turning hazy purple and the fireflies are coming out and the ground is wet beneath the grass 

Slipping running on the way home 

Circling the house

The air around us cooling and dimming

The lights inside warm and inhabited 

Waiting to take us in 

Dirty and bright eyed 

Hearts beating 

And so carelessly young 

                             — olivia gwyn

The pulp sticky on your fingers

 

The pulp sticky on your fingers

Sometimes your hope 

Is a yellow blanket

Flung haphazard on the couch

Sometimes it is 

The child tripping on the 

Way up the steps

Splitting his lip on the ledge

And looking back with a 

Shaky smile and teary eyes

Other times your hope

Is a room full of 

Voices talking over each other,

In the familiar way

That only breeds affection

It is the breaking 

Of the yolk running down

Over the sides

It is the beetle burning

In the flame on the log

Just trying to return home

It is the split orange

Perfectly portioned for me and you,

A feast prepared in anticipation,

The pulp sticky on your fingers

– olivia gwyn

A tumbling run

 

A tumbling run (or redemption)

It’s like the sun on the pavement after rain

It’s a good tumbling run down a big hill

It’s the chickadees making a dinner party of the crumbs that fell to the ground

It’s like laughing after a good cry

It’s the warm bread and butter with the jam you thought you'd ruined

It’s when He comes like the sun

After millennia of dark

Like relief

Like water in a parched land

Like laying your head on your moms shoulder

Like climbing into a freshly made bed knowing tomorrow will be perfect

It feels like You

                                        — olivia gwyn

Everything is butter yellow

 

Everything is butter yellow 

Everything is butter yellow 

In the evening light 

On the cusp of fall

Summer still writing love notes 

Across the earth 

In its best handwriting

The darkness taking the landscape,
Changing it with 
Each large, easy stride

I try to follow as fast as I can 
To take it all in, but it doesn't 
Wait for me

It never does
I am trying to learn
To walk slowly anyway

— olivia gwyn 

A light on in the kitchen

A light on in the kitchen

For Mom

A woman opens the door

Arms full of groceries

She sets them on the kitchen counter

Along with her keys and jacket and kid's sock and 

A paper cup of melted ice and Diet Coke

She puts on the counter her rolled pizza dough

Hot out of the oven on a threadbare oven mitt

She lets the laughter roll over it

She paints over it, regrets it

She sets her to do lists on the kitchen counter,

Nine since last Thursday

She puts her kids' homework there, 

Their elbows as they sulk over problem #7

She puts her patience there,

Wrapped warm in a blanket, 

Like a loaf of bread to cool,

Sometimes burnt and hot to the touch

She lays her worries there, 

Wondering if it will collapse

She spills the casserole and

Doses the medicine with water beside

She gathers the eggs from the hens,

Cracks them there on the counter,

12 eggs a morning, multiplied by 7,

Equals, multiplied by 54, 

multiplied by what? How many years?

She leans on the counter there and 

Wonders sometimes at night or early in the morning,

"For what?"

That's when she spreads her prayer out there, 

Like a morning offering, like a dusting of flour, 

The light making latticework over the dented counter,

Christening the sacrifice

She wipes the disappointments 

Off the counter with the crumbs

And scoops up her children instead 

To snuggle them, leaning against the counter

She kisses foreheads and her husband on the lips

And welcomes home with her sleeves rolled up

And the counter beams at her all the while

Wondering that the woman ever thought the counter might break

When all she'd given him was a place to call home

And, always, a light on in the kitchen

At the end of the day

— olivia gwyn 

wasteland

Wasteland

I watch a video of everyone stopping to watch a kid play piano in a crowded airport 

And do you ever think it is a miracle 

That any of us got up out of bed

There are a billion and one things 

That could go wrong today 

And nothing to assure us it won’t 

Can you believe we still look at the sky 

And the light on the sheets 

And talk about the new episode of our favorite tv show coming out 

How we look each other in the eye

And don’t forget to say goodbye 

And have guest rooms for people to stay the night 

How we dare to hope we might get better than what we fear we might deserve

For maybe even one more day

And another and after that who knows? 

I watch us all go, smiling,

Fighting our brave little battles

Making all the difference in the world 

We hope for water to flow

Out of the stone, 

On a fool’s errand to find joy in a wasteland

And yet look, again,

There is more than enough 

— olivia gwyn