KATE & S O N I A(IN THE MONTHS B E FO R E O U R SECOND DAU G H-T E R ’ S B I R T H )
KATE & S O N I A(IN THE MONTHS B E FO R E O U R SECOND DAU G H-T E R ’ S B I R T H )
KATE & S O N I A(IN THE M ON T H S B E F O R E O U R S E C O N D D A U G H -T E R ’ S B I R T H )
Kate &
Sonia
Dan Thomas-Glass
( )in the months
before our second
daughter’s birth
Kate &
Sonia
Dan Thomas-Glass
( )in the months
before our second
daughter’s birth
Kate &
Sonia
Dan Thomas-Glass
( )in the months
before our second
daughter’s birth
© Dan Thomas-Glass 2011
little red leaves textile series
www.textileseries.com
© Dan Thomas-Glass 2011
little red leaves textile series
www.textileseries.com
© Dan Thomas-Glass 2011
little red leaves textile series
www.textileseries.com
1.
In front of the fence pushing
Sonia on the swing wants
to transfix a moment as it swirls
swirl in my head. Tress stretch up
in front of garden plots to
monuments of our brevity.
We could get on a list.
We should plant something.
Sonia insists on swinging
higher then twists
to see Kate turning toward
the trees toward us behind
the fence looking up—there
are clouds, in that sky.
1.
In front of the fence pushing
Sonia on the swing wants
to transfix a moment as it swirls
swirl in my head. Tress stretch up
in front of garden plots to
monuments of our brevity.
We could get on a list.
We should plant something.
Sonia insists on swinging
higher then twists
to see Kate turning toward
the trees toward us behind
the fence looking up—there
are clouds, in that sky.
1.
In front of the fence pushing
Sonia on the swing wants
to transfix a moment as it swirls
swirl in my head. Tress stretch up
in front of garden plots to
monuments of our brevity.
We could get on a list.
We should plant something.
Sonia insists on swinging
higher then twists
to see Kate turning toward
the trees toward us behind
the fence looking up—there
are clouds, in that sky.
2.
Sonia screams against the order
days insist on packing
into the stretch: minor
impossibilities like toes
arched up to generate
space straining to switch
the switch. This possible world
Sonia screams against. I
glance at Kate—where are
our options? To lift
or light? Shushing by
ref lex my arm motions
toward quiet.
2.
Sonia screams against the order
days insist on packing
into the stretch: minor
impossibilities like toes
arched up to generate
space straining to switch
the switch. This possible world
Sonia screams against. I
glance at Kate—where are
our options? To lift
or light? Shushing by
ref lex my arm motions
toward quiet.
2.
Sonia screams against the order
days insist on packing
into the stretch: minor
impossibilities like toes
arched up to generate
space straining to switch
the switch. This possible world
Sonia screams against. I
glance at Kate—where are
our options? To lift
or light? Shushing by
ref lex my arm motions
toward quiet.
3.
Kate, Sonia I wanted to write
a poem for you that a mother would write
an umbilical poem
joining us to us—
head against our
neck as tears dry.
Kate, Sonia the day gets so long—
here where I am not
there with you. Not
breath to breath or
infant body tucked
below our chin.
3.
Kate, Sonia I wanted to write
a poem for you that a mother would write
an umbilical poem
joining us to us—
head against our
neck as tears dry.
Kate, Sonia the day gets so long—
here where I am not
there with you. Not
breath to breath or
infant body tucked
below our chin.
3.
Kate, Sonia I wanted to write
a poem for you that a mother would write
an umbilical poem
joining us to us—
head against our
neck as tears dry.
Kate, Sonia the day gets so long—
here where I am not
there with you. Not
breath to breath or
infant body tucked
below our chin.
4.
There was never
incandescent in this
poem no Sonia
spinning knee crooked
to Charlotte Dada
never heated bright
as Kate’s laugh
there remembering there
was never hot
like what made
you Sonia in
a poem though
it pirouettes it
beams it burns.
4.
There was never
incandescent in this
poem no Sonia
spinning knee crooked
to Charlotte Dada
never heated bright
as Kate’s laugh
there remembering there
was never hot
like what made
you Sonia in
a poem though
it pirouettes it
beams it burns.
4.
There was never
incandescent in this
poem no Sonia
spinning knee crooked
to Charlotte Dada
never heated bright
as Kate’s laugh
there remembering there
was never hot
like what made
you Sonia in
a poem though
it pirouettes it
beams it burns.
5.
In the Tupperware inside
the closet the Tupperware
I took from an empty kitchen
(now it’s in the closet inside
our bedroom upstairs) to
pour a cup of my mom’s ashes
from official plastic urn to
Tupperware—inside that
Tupperware is a cup of my
mom’s ashes. We know that.
The burp that lets out the
inside. Or keeps it in maybe.
But that inside the closet
up the stairs inside the apartment
that inside the Tupperware is
my mom’s burnt body & she
was born in 1950 so of course
she had a body. Sonia there
5.
In the Tupperware inside
the closet the Tupperware
I took from an empty kitchen
(now it’s in the closet inside
our bedroom upstairs) to
pour a cup of my mom’s ashes
from official plastic urn to
Tupperware—inside that
Tupperware is a cup of my
mom’s ashes. We know that.
The burp that lets out the
inside. Or keeps it in maybe.
But that inside the closet
up the stairs inside the apartment
that inside the Tupperware is
my mom’s burnt body & she
was born in 1950 so of course
she had a body. Sonia there
5.
In the Tupperware inside
the closet the Tupperware
I took from an empty kitchen
(now it’s in the closet inside
our bedroom upstairs) to
pour a cup of my mom’s ashes
from official plastic urn to
Tupperware—inside that
Tupperware is a cup of my
mom’s ashes. We know that.
The burp that lets out the
inside. Or keeps it in maybe.
But that inside the closet
up the stairs inside the apartment
that inside the Tupperware is
my mom’s burnt body & she
was born in 1950 so of course
she had a body. Sonia there
was a world before plastic—
crazy, I know! like before air
or something— & in those
bodies before plastic my
mom was a body & I was
a body & you were there
too in Kate’s mom was Kate
& in Kate was you before
plastic inside the inside we
have been letting out in cups
& burps, us burnt too & here.
was a world before plastic—
crazy, I know! like before air
or something— & in those
bodies before plastic my
mom was a body & I was
a body & you were there
too in Kate’s mom was Kate
& in Kate was you before
plastic inside the inside we
have been letting out in cups
& burps, us burnt too & here.
was a world before plastic—
crazy, I know! like before air
or something— & in those
bodies before plastic my
mom was a body & I was
a body & you were there
too in Kate’s mom was Kate
& in Kate was you before
plastic inside the inside we
have been letting out in cups
& burps, us burnt too & here.
6.
Kate, Sonia I have
six minutes left before class
ends & these twelve-
year-olds stop writing
their two-page memoirs
about horses & grandparents.
Kate, Sonia I was
talking to Jesse in
the kitchen as Sonia
took her bath upstairs
around seven last
night about memory.
6.
Kate, Sonia I have
six minutes left before class
ends & these twelve-
year-olds stop writing
their two-page memoirs
about horses & grandparents.
Kate, Sonia I was
talking to Jesse in
the kitchen as Sonia
took her bath upstairs
around seven last
night about memory.
6.
Kate, Sonia I have
six minutes left before class
ends & these twelve-
year-olds stop writing
their two-page memoirs
about horses & grandparents.
Kate, Sonia I was
talking to Jesse in
the kitchen as Sonia
took her bath upstairs
around seven last
night about memory.
7.
There is a moment I will
insist on this is Sonia:
aquaform silhouette
cobra poses in bathwater
in mock protest this is
is—against Kate joining
her the liquid shadow that
once was a whole now ismemory, is this this.
7.
There is a moment I will
insist on this is Sonia:
aquaform silhouette
cobra poses in bathwater
in mock protest this is
is—against Kate joining
her the liquid shadow that
once was a whole now ismemory, is this this.
7.
There is a moment I will
insist on this is Sonia:
aquaform silhouette
cobra poses in bathwater
in mock protest this is
is—against Kate joining
her the liquid shadow that
once was a whole now ismemory, is this this.
8.
Sonia screams against the order
Target presses
into the press: buttons
for up light
up as we
prep to ascend.
Pick the plastic &
place it in the plastic
basket—one
with whistles—
this molded world
Sonia screams against. It’s
from China, Kate, like breathing.
8.
Sonia screams against the order
Target presses
into the press: buttons
for up light
up as we
prep to ascend.
Pick the plastic &
place it in the plastic
basket—one
with whistles—
this molded world
Sonia screams against. It’s
from China, Kate, like breathing.
8.
Sonia screams against the order
Target presses
into the press: buttons
for up light
up as we
prep to ascend.
Pick the plastic &
place it in the plastic
basket—one
with whistles—
this molded world
Sonia screams against. It’s
from China, Kate, like breathing.
9.
Half of the plastic produced,
Sonia, is used only once
before being discarded. Think packaging:
shampoo bottles,
disposable razors,
yogurt cups. Sonia you prefer vanilla
in your plastic cups. It sounds like
banilla. How many times
will you or your sister
use the plastic doll heads?
It f loats through us, Kate—
250 million tons each year,
4.7 million tons into the seas,
bobbing on the greens &
blues & grays &
twisting & then mired
in the dimmed tides
of what we recall.
9.
Half of the plastic produced,
Sonia, is used only once
before being discarded. Think packaging:
shampoo bottles,
disposable razors,
yogurt cups. Sonia you prefer vanilla
in your plastic cups. It sounds like
banilla. How many times
will you or your sister
use the plastic doll heads?
It f loats through us, Kate—
250 million tons each year,
4.7 million tons into the seas,
bobbing on the greens &
blues & grays &
twisting & then mired
in the dimmed tides
of what we recall.
9.
Half of the plastic produced,
Sonia, is used only once
before being discarded. Think packaging:
shampoo bottles,
disposable razors,
yogurt cups. Sonia you prefer vanilla
in your plastic cups. It sounds like
banilla. How many times
will you or your sister
use the plastic doll heads?
It f loats through us, Kate—
250 million tons each year,
4.7 million tons into the seas,
bobbing on the greens &
blues & grays &
twisting & then mired
in the dimmed tides
of what we recall.
10.
Mostly, Sonia, Kate, the plastic soup
consists of tiny fragments,
some the size of a fingernail (of your fingernail?),
some much smaller,
f loating on or below the surface
across thousands of kilometers.
After a birthday party in
a plastic banana
you got a tiny plastic bottle
of nail polish, some shiny
polymer. When you look
for it you say you want
your painting nails things.
It sounds like shings.
10.
Mostly, Sonia, Kate, the plastic soup
consists of tiny fragments,
some the size of a fingernail (of your fingernail?),
some much smaller,
f loating on or below the surface
across thousands of kilometers.
After a birthday party in
a plastic banana
you got a tiny plastic bottle
of nail polish, some shiny
polymer. When you look
for it you say you want
your painting nails things.
It sounds like shings.
10.
Mostly, Sonia, Kate, the plastic soup
consists of tiny fragments,
some the size of a fingernail (of your fingernail?),
some much smaller,
f loating on or below the surface
across thousands of kilometers.
After a birthday party in
a plastic banana
you got a tiny plastic bottle
of nail polish, some shiny
polymer. When you look
for it you say you want
your painting nails things.
It sounds like shings.
The gunk cannot be seen via satellite
making it hard for scientists to measure
or track the problem. It is
clearly visible from up close.
It’s kind of like chunky dust, hovering in the water.
You can see the change in the texture of the water.
The samples taken from the sea
in the middle of these gyres
are a glutinous-looking mess.
The gunk cannot be seen via satellite
making it hard for scientists to measure
or track the problem. It is
clearly visible from up close.
It’s kind of like chunky dust, hovering in the water.
You can see the change in the texture of the water.
The samples taken from the sea
in the middle of these gyres
are a glutinous-looking mess.
The gunk cannot be seen via satellite
making it hard for scientists to measure
or track the problem. It is
clearly visible from up close.
It’s kind of like chunky dust, hovering in the water.
You can see the change in the texture of the water.
The samples taken from the sea
in the middle of these gyres
are a glutinous-looking mess.
11.
There is not. It is quiet.
In the room the plastic house is orange, glowing orange.
Sonia says, “Daddy this pillow is not cold enough.”
It sounds like enush.
Daddy there is not. In the quiet.
In the room the plastic iPhone is blue, glowing blue.
Kate I feel guilty that as I watch our daughter fall asleep I
am thinking about tomorrow.
Kate I think Kenny & Erica in Bolinas have it right: the
wood stove, the loom.
Kate I am in the room & the orange & the blue; a widening
dark.
Sonia I am sorry for all this moment’s failures.
11.
There is not. It is quiet.
In the room the plastic house is orange, glowing orange.
Sonia says, “Daddy this pillow is not cold enough.”
It sounds like enush.
Daddy there is not. In the quiet.
In the room the plastic iPhone is blue, glowing blue.
Kate I feel guilty that as I watch our daughter fall asleep I
am thinking about tomorrow.
Kate I think Kenny & Erica in Bolinas have it right: the
wood stove, the loom.
Kate I am in the room & the orange & the blue; a widening
dark.
Sonia I am sorry for all this moment’s failures.
11.
There is not. It is quiet.
In the room the plastic house is orange, glowing orange.
Sonia says, “Daddy this pillow is not cold enough.”
It sounds like enush.
Daddy there is not. In the quiet.
In the room the plastic iPhone is blue, glowing blue.
Kate I feel guilty that as I watch our daughter fall asleep I
am thinking about tomorrow.
Kate I think Kenny & Erica in Bolinas have it right: the
wood stove, the loom.
Kate I am in the room & the orange & the blue; a widening
dark.
Sonia I am sorry for all this moment’s failures.
EPILOGU EEPILOGU EEPILOGU E
I should sing from heights:
Daughters of your century
what months & then what
weeks & then what days &
then what hours & minutes
will you count the closest
to your hearts? Which will
mold your pouring mettle?
Our modular hopes spark.
Let us wish: for the beach-
iest Sundays before burnt
skin draws us under, in the
shadow of redwood trees
a respite we conspire to
hold tight, in the shadow
of vowel shifts as language
invaded language on islands
in undiff erentiated moments
called history then particular
for individuals living it—Oh
I guess we are no diff erent, if
you ask sweet, little larks who
our planet—this I that speaks
will see only some small part
of those long years. My dears
I sing to wish for you—may
you remember your mother
Kate’s eyes as she stared out
at the ocean—green against
green. May you remember
that whatever way it is it was
not always so—& need not
remain. On the islands our
memories sift for us: noises
become words or melody
become the sounds you
make falling to dreams.
Language spares us only
bits: darting note to notes
as birds lilt then settle dust-
ed by the passing light. Oh I
suppose the days meander
back & forth like the long
sights the stars cast at our
I should sing from heights:
Daughters of your century
what months & then what
weeks & then what days &
then what hours & minutes
will you count the closest
to your hearts? Which will
mold your pouring mettle?
Our modular hopes spark.
Let us wish: for the beach-
iest Sundays before burnt
skin draws us under, in the
shadow of redwood trees
a respite we conspire to
hold tight, in the shadow
of vowel shifts as language
invaded language on islands
in undiff erentiated moments
called history then particular
for individuals living it—Oh
I guess we are no diff erent, if
you ask sweet, little larks who
our planet—this I that speaks
will see only some small part
of those long years. My dears
I sing to wish for you—may
you remember your mother
Kate’s eyes as she stared out
at the ocean—green against
green. May you remember
that whatever way it is it was
not always so—& need not
remain. On the islands our
memories sift for us: noises
become words or melody
become the sounds you
make falling to dreams.
Language spares us only
bits: darting note to notes
as birds lilt then settle dust-
ed by the passing light. Oh I
suppose the days meander
back & forth like the long
sights the stars cast at our
I should sing from heights:
Daughters of your century
what months & then what
weeks & then what days &
then what hours & minutes
will you count the closest
to your hearts? Which will
mold your pouring mettle?
Our modular hopes spark.
Let us wish: for the beach-
iest Sundays before burnt
skin draws us under, in the
shadow of redwood trees
a respite we conspire to
hold tight, in the shadow
of vowel shifts as language
invaded language on islands
in undiff erentiated moments
called history then particular
for individuals living it—Oh
I guess we are no diff erent, if
you ask sweet, little larks who
our planet—this I that speaks
will see only some small part
of those long years. My dears
I sing to wish for you—may
you remember your mother
Kate’s eyes as she stared out
at the ocean—green against
green. May you remember
that whatever way it is it was
not always so—& need not
remain. On the islands our
memories sift for us: noises
become words or melody
become the sounds you
make falling to dreams.
Language spares us only
bits: darting note to notes
as birds lilt then settle dust-
ed by the passing light. Oh I
suppose the days meander
back & forth like the long
sights the stars cast at our
fl it from branch to branch as
evening deepens. Daughters
of your century what sunsets,
what current patterns, what
tides, what plastic dust, what
fi rsts, what fi nals, what fi res,
what birds turning sharp into
the purple & the early stars
so eager to be remembered?
What wars, what economies?
My daughters—Sonia, your
sister whose name we don’t
know yet—I suck inward at
the thought I might not be
there to help. My daughters:
I suck inward at the thought
I might not be there to see.
Daughters of your century
I will know only part. I that
should sing from some tall
peaks, this I that stares now
at industrial carpets in one
of the richest counties on
heads on those rare nights
when, still waking, we slim
our tomorrows into lists. I
suppose it is so, daughters
of your century, & this I I
suppose I am seeks means
to touch minds as wonder
overtakes, that wonder of
thought gone memory or
how you will reach words
we left behind in scripted
hours, misusing the now I
suspect of forcing a self on
now— a self I suspect isn’t
all that I might be, though
daughters of your century
I accept this I as an I I am,
as I said, & part of the now
& also part of each of you,
in your eyes & gestures &
in these words as they fall
to memory, our beasts &
bodies singing faintly lit.
fl it from branch to branch as
evening deepens. Daughters
of your century what sunsets,
what current patterns, what
tides, what plastic dust, what
fi rsts, what fi nals, what fi res,
what birds turning sharp into
the purple & the early stars
so eager to be remembered?
What wars, what economies?
My daughters—Sonia, your
sister whose name we don’t
know yet—I suck inward at
the thought I might not be
there to help. My daughters:
I suck inward at the thought
I might not be there to see.
Daughters of your century
I will know only part. I that
should sing from some tall
peaks, this I that stares now
at industrial carpets in one
of the richest counties on
heads on those rare nights
when, still waking, we slim
our tomorrows into lists. I
suppose it is so, daughters
of your century, & this I I
suppose I am seeks means
to touch minds as wonder
overtakes, that wonder of
thought gone memory or
how you will reach words
we left behind in scripted
hours, misusing the now I
suspect of forcing a self on
now— a self I suspect isn’t
all that I might be, though
daughters of your century
I accept this I as an I I am,
as I said, & part of the now
& also part of each of you,
in your eyes & gestures &
in these words as they fall
to memory, our beasts &
bodies singing faintly lit.
fl it from branch to branch as
evening deepens. Daughters
of your century what sunsets,
what current patterns, what
tides, what plastic dust, what
fi rsts, what fi nals, what fi res,
what birds turning sharp into
the purple & the early stars
so eager to be remembered?
What wars, what economies?
My daughters—Sonia, your
sister whose name we don’t
know yet—I suck inward at
the thought I might not be
there to help. My daughters:
I suck inward at the thought
I might not be there to see.
Daughters of your century
I will know only part. I that
should sing from some tall
peaks, this I that stares now
at industrial carpets in one
of the richest counties on
heads on those rare nights
when, still waking, we slim
our tomorrows into lists. I
suppose it is so, daughters
of your century, & this I I
suppose I am seeks means
to touch minds as wonder
overtakes, that wonder of
thought gone memory or
how you will reach words
we left behind in scripted
hours, misusing the now I
suspect of forcing a self on
now— a self I suspect isn’t
all that I might be, though
daughters of your century
I accept this I as an I I am,
as I said, & part of the now
& also part of each of you,
in your eyes & gestures &
in these words as they fall
to memory, our beasts &
bodies singing faintly lit.
Dan Thomas-Glass wrote these poems in the spring and summer of 2011. He lives in Albany, CA with his wife Kate and their daughters Sonia and Alma (born 9/21/11). He is the editor of With + Stand and the author of 880 (Deep Oakland Editions), Seaming (Furniture Press), and The Great American Beatjack Volume I, which will be published by Dana Ward in 2012.
This LRL textile edition was lovingly sewn with recycled bedsheets and fancy paper.
Dan Thomas-Glass wrote these poems in the spring and summer of 2011. He lives in Albany, CA with his wife Kate and their daughters Sonia and Alma (born 9/21/11). He is the editor of With + Stand and the author of 880 (Deep Oakland Editions), Seaming (Furniture Press), and The Great American Beatjack Volume I, which will be published by Dana Ward in 2012.
This LRL textile edition was lovingly sewn with recycled bedsheets and fancy paper.
Dan Thomas-Glass wrote these poems in the spring and summer of 2011. He lives in Albany, CA with his wife Kate and their daughters Sonia and Alma (born 9/21/11). He is the editor of With + Stand and the author of 880 (Deep Oakland Editions), Seaming (Furniture Press), and The Great American Beatjack Volume I, which will be published by Dana Ward in 2012.
This LR L textile edition was lovingly sewn with recycled bedsheets and fancy paper.