I know, I know. It’s been a hot minute since my last post. October is always a crazy month for me—programs and teaching and readings and whatnot. Not to mention Saint Marty’s Day, my wedding anniversary, and my beautiful wife’s birthday. I’ve barely had time to sleep. I also traveled downstate twice (once to visit my daughter and her significant other, once to do a Halloween reading in Traverse City). Is that enough of a catalogue of excuses? Usually, by the time November 1st rolls around, I’m pretty much exhausted every year.
Today, however, was a little different. After the midterm elections last night, I woke up feeling unusual. I didn’t struggle to drag myself out of bed. I found myself whistling in the bathroom as I went about my morning ablutions. Even though the weather was drizzly and foggy (frizzly?), the temperature was in the 60s. My university students were unusually enthusiastic, and, walking across campus, I again found myself whistling. There was no dread rattling around my brain, and I didn’t have to force myself to smile or laugh.
Everything seemed so much lighter.
Marie Howe sees a person who used to make her happy . . .
Separation
by: Marie Howe
Driving out of town, I see him crossing
the Brooks Pharmacy parking lot, and remember
how he would drop to his knees in the kitchen
and press his face to my dress, his cheek flat against
my belly as if he were listening for something.
Somebody might be waiting for coffee in the living room,
someone might be setting the dining room table, he’d
place his face under my dress and press his cheek
against my belly and kneel there, without saying anything.
How is it possible that I am allowed to see him
like this—walking quickly by the glass windows?
—what he wears in the world without me,
his hands swinging by his side, his cock quiet
in his jeans, his shirt covering
his shoulders, his own tongue in his mouth.
Yes, Howe’s words are tinged with melancholy, remembering a tiny intimacy she used to share with this person. But I think she’s also reveling in the recollected joy of the experience. Basically, she’s saying, “I had this once, and it was wonderful. Now, I’m allowed this glimpse—this fleeting moment—and I’m so lucky and sad.” As with any cherished memory, it is gilded with longing and grief because it’s gone, never to be recaptured.
My feeling of lightness today reminds me of the night Barack Obama was first elected President of the United States, how I sat in front of the television and watched him step onto that stage in Chicago as the first African American elected to the Oval Office. That moment filled me with so much hope and pride for my country. It seemed like we had overcome our institutional hatred for people of color and were handing the car keys to this articulate, intelligent human. I floated above the ground for days afterward.
I’ve been experiencing a little of that floating today. The past ten years have been filled with so much hatred and division, mainly due to the person currently sitting behind the Resolute Desk. Last night, however, a majority of the citizens of my country chose to embrace acceptance and unity instead of anger and discord. Maybe I’m being stupidly naive. Maybe last night was all about people being tired of high gas and grocery and healthcare prices. But I’m choosing to believe in a miracle—water being turned into wine.
My goal is not to alienate anyone here. I think everyone can agree that the White House has not been a model of kindness and compassion. In fact, I would say that Jesus Christ would toss a few tables around if he were allowed into the West Wing. (That’s a very big “if.” Christ probably wouldn’t make it past the front gate with his olive skin and curly hair.) I believe a term Jesus utters in the gospels against the Sanhedrin and Chief Priests is most applicable to the current Administration residing on Pennsylvania Avenue: they’re “a brood of vipers.”
Well, that brood is now in full panic mode after the midterm elections last night, and I’m ecstatic. I’m going to ride this wave of hope for as long as I can. I know it’s not going to last forever, but it could last a couple weeks. And then reality will set in. Sort of like when Howe sees her former lover. She’s excited to see him, but she also knows this person is gone forever from her life.
Are the Republicans going to do shit that will piss me off in the future? Most definitely. The Democrats probably will, too. Will I be happy during the second half of President You-Know-Who’s term? Yup. Will I be sad and pissed, too? Yup X 2. That’s the nature of the human experience. When we gather around our tables to celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas, we think of those who are no longer with us. Joy tempered with a modicum of grief.
But tonight—at 11:37 p.m. on this fourth day of the eleventh month in the year of our Lord 2026–I am going to rest easy for the first time in a long while. And I will wake up and not be afraid to check the morning headlines because the world is a tiny bit kinder and safer for my kids.
Saint Marty has a poem tonight about a parent’s love for her child . . .
Demeter in Mourning
by: Martin Achatz
My mom sat by my sister’s bed,
holding her hand, as my sister’s breaths
slowed and slowed, as if her lungs
were wounded soldiers marching home
after Bull Run or the Battle of the Bulge.
And my mom kept saying Yes, you’re okay
over and over, like she was teaching my sister
how to swim, reassuring her the water wasn’t
very deep and, if she put her legs down,
she would feel clay underneath her soles.
Mom kept chanting Yes, you’re okay. Yes.
You’re. Okay yes. Yes. Okay. You’re yes. Okay.
And I wondered if, when those breaths
stopped, my mother would smudge ashes
in her hair, on her face, and wander the world,
searching, while her rose bushes withered
and tomatoes fell to the ground, unharvested,
claimed by the ants and worms and wasps.
