September 28: Poet of the Week, Lisa Russ Spaar, "Hallowe'en," "Ives" Dip, Adventures of Stickman

My choice for Poet of the Week is Lisa Russ Spaar.  I'm not that familiar with her work, but I came upon her collection Glass Town in my office.  A friend had given it to me this summer.  I started paging through it, and I came across the following poem:

Hallowe'en

On the night of skulled gourds,
of small, masked demons
begging at the door,
a man cradles his eldest daughter
in the family room.  She's fourteen,
she's dying because she will not eat
anymore.  The doorbell keeps ringing;
his wife gives the sweets away.
He rubs the scalp
through his girl's thin hair.
She sleeps.  He does not know
what to do.
When the carved pumpkin
gutters in the windowglass,
his little son races through the room,
his black suit printed with bones
that glow in the dark.
His pillowsack bulges with candy,
and he yelps with joy.
The father wishes he were young.
He's afraid of the dream
she's burning back to,
his dream of her before her birth,
so pure, so perfect,
with no body to impede her light.

This poem spoke to me on many levels.  As the father of a 14-year-old girl.  Lover of Halloween.  Grieving brother.  It's a poem that breaks my heart open.

My daughter has been a dancer since she was five years old.  That's when she took her first ballet class.  I always worried about her getting caught up with body image issues.  She never has, thank goodness.  But it's never far from my mind.

My daughter is very level-headed.  I trust her.  Don't get me wrong.  I'm not letting my guard down.  There are still teenage boys to discourage.  I'm not that trusting.

My question for Ives tonight is about my daughter:

Does my daughter still think I'm cool?

And the answer:

 ...Shortly, around two o'clock, they were sitting in a crowd in an echoing gothically ornate hall listening to a group of choristers singing in Latin about the transformations of the soul and other such autumnal subjects, and in the midst of one such song, Robert, reached over and took hold of his mother's hand, holding it gently.  And he had looked over at her, his expression saying, "I will always be with you, Mama, from this day onward."

 OK, I will take that as a "yes" for being cool.  I have to.  I'm tired, and worrying about my daughter will keep me up tonight.

Saint Marty doesn't mind living in denial if it means a good night's sleep.

Adventures of STICKMAN