"Dirty Kleenex," "A Soup of Falls" and "5AM"
three poems by Tama Cathers
Part of our “Mini-Portraits of America: Day in the Life” series
A Soup of Falls Oh, the beauty of a simple clean life. All tidy and clean… Instead, I generate a chaotic mess; a soup of falls - from grace into grace. In the peeking dawn, I spy bicycle wheels littering the ground of my life’s front doors, spilled there, no doubt, when the sun fell last night, shattering the horizon with a burst of stars. Some strange cosmic peacocks must weave the mess of bikes and toys into wind chimes and whirly gigs; Unfathomable tangles of hurry and nonchalance. By noon, the tangle melts into sticky pools of candy juice, tears of joy, and puppy dog goop. At 3 PM, wild jungle chickens must sweep in, a panoply of full color, cleaning all the debris up or hiding it from me. I step out to pick up children from school, ready to step from sane spot to sane spot, but it all looks fine - by then. Fine, I tell myself. If it’s not fine, I will fix it later. Late again, I rush off in a chariot, driving like fire; a phoenix ignited. I return in a swirl of notes, paper and pencils, apple cores, and daytime stories. Bags are dropped, shoes fly off, grass and leaves walk in and out, filling the house with traffic, all afternoon. Temperatures soar inside - food is cooked, spilled, and cleaned, eaten or licked off the floor, dependent on your species and age. Cooing like doves, a calm ocean washes through from 7 to 8. Homework – my life preserver – who knew!? Dusk is running feet, bicycle races, skinned knees, bedtime stories, followed by lover’s kisses - if the stars align, if the bed can be dug out from the clothing, if the engine still has some fuel, if we can tolerate the explosions, of forming new universes, of sparks shooting out of her head, rocking the universe, body dissolving. Finally, under the stars, I tuck myself away saying, tomorrow will be a new day: I won’t be tired. I won’t spill Malt’o’Meal on my business top, nor have dogs try to lick it off, while pretending the seriousness of adulthood. I won’t forget, I won’t be late… The mockingbirds sing, knowing that is a lie - tomorrow it will be another remarkable stumble, another amazing soup of falls, from grace, into grace.
Five PM The clickety-click of the keyboard. The scrappy sound of the mouse on the desk. The low-grade constant hiss of the fan – heater baking my feet; too hot, too cold. No sound from the living room – homework time for us all. The glare of the lamp, wrapped in a blue scarf. Garlic, Onions, Bacon-y greens; the collards are cooking to my husband’s dismay. Dirty Kleenex Sometimes I think to myself how happy I will be when I don’t have to pick up your egg encrusted spatula and your dirty Kleenex. When I don’t have to move your dishes – again – the ones you are supposed to wash AND put away. But it is not true. It is small payment to have your insight, laughter, and presence in my house. Never believe that putting away your shoes, which are blocking the door, is more important than you are. Never believe that I wouldn’t pay to have you make more messes – – like the bathroom, with seven towels, damp and heaped on the floor – just to have you here – and alive. I suppose. . . you would say the same about me.
Tama Cathers is a poet who has been writing since her early teens, chasing wonder and sorting out the world with metaphor and a little sass. Her work delves into the intimate, unvarnished portraits of American life—from the chaotic grace of family to the sharp bite of the body’s fragility—always exploring the hidden layers beneath the surface of the everyday. A runner-up in the Ned Foskey Poetry Contest and a contributor to publications like the Cereal City Review and the anthology Hearing the Camino’s Call, she is a writer who has kept blooming, sometimes sideways, sometimes underground. For her, the poems are a necessity, insisting on being written to document the remarkable stumble from grace into grace.