My daughter comes home from school and says to me: "Mom, during attendance my teacher asked us our favourite animals." "Neat," I say, "You said cat, didn't you?" "Yes Mom," she says, "but Ben said humans. And Teacher said those are her least favourite. She said humans are responsible for too many bad things in the world." 'Favourite things are people's opinions," I remind her, but neither of us are satisfied. So I say: "I think a lot of people would agree with your teacher. I used to. But I think that it's a little bit of an excuse." "What do you mean?" she asks. I remind her of the time she was struggling to learn subtraction and she tried to escape through a door labelled: "Bad at math." Because when we believe there's something about us that cannot change, we can shed our fear of failure by refusing to grow. If we're just bad at something, there's no point practicing to get better. If humans do nothing but harm, then what is the point of of fighting for, or believing in, or expecting anything different for the future. Look, I don't need to expound upon humanity's sins to her; she is already familiar with them. My daughter was born into a country where she cannot help but walk over the bones of other children, slaughtered by people who looked like her. At nine years old my daughter knows the words genocide, and systemic racism, income inequality, global warming, mass extinction, she knows she has inherited a violent legacy she never asked for. And before your protest that she is too young, I'd like to remind you that many children younger than her learn these concepts at gunpoint, with teachers like hunger and disease, standing over their parents' graves. She learns in a loving mother's voice, I hold her hands as we unpick knots together, and when she cries, it is never alone. Are we her teacher's least favourite animal? My daughter knows the bloodprice of profit, knows the human sacrifices that make a billionaire, but I remind her of the little vegan grocery we shop from whose owners refused to raise prices despite inflation, who break every rule of "good business" in the interest of being "good neighbours." Are they her teacher's least favourite animal? I tell her the people of the Wet'suwet'en Nation put themselves in the line of fire, stand for days on end facing persecution, to defend the water and land that nourishes us. Are they her teacher's least favourite animal? She watches documentaries with her dad about the researchers and engineers developing the latest clean-energy hopefuls, trying to force triangular economies into more sustainable circles. Are they her least favourite animal? We talk about how poverty is decreasing, along with infant mortality. About increases in conservation and species-protections.. How, statistically, the world is becoming a better place. It isn't enough yet, but people are still working to improve it. Are they her teacher's least favourite animal? Her aunt sends pictures of her new baby cousin. Is he her teacher's least favourite animal? Scientists have developed a vaccine for malaria. Are they her teacher's least favourite animal? Mosquitoes kill half a million children every year. Could her teacher think of no animal more deserving of the title of "least favourite" than us? Mosquitoes are only doing what is in their nature, but human nature is the ability to change. Our species' entire evolutionary strategy is hinged on our ability to override our own programming. A mosquito cannot chose to spare a child, but we can. I ask my daughter what she thinks the world could look like, if we didn't treat each other like our least favourite animal. She smiles, satisfied, and already I can see the future changing.
poetry
dark side
The Moon is tidally locked, which is a fancy way of saying that she cannot turn her head. We tell her she is beautiful, but she wonders what it means when we've only seen one side — the one that shines the brightest. She worries what we would think if we only knew how much she loves her darkest self.
living
I spend so much time lamenting the days I can't write poetry sometimes I fail to notice the days I'm living it instead
worry
I am not afraid of bees or wasps or flies or other things that sting and bite no, the thing that fills my heart with fear is the elusive buzzing in my ear that whispers: what if what if what if
Haunted
My house is haunted by a little girl, a waist-length tangle of brown hair, and wide eyes the colour of an angry ocean. Her mother tells stories about those eyes: lids thrown like blinds from the moment she was born, greedy for light and life, tricking the nurses into adding hours to her age. I feel those eyes upon me a lot these days. No one else knows that she is here, but in those rare twilight moments when I am permitted my own company she follows me with questions: Where am I? she asks me, and: tell me a story, and: remember when? I don't know, I tell her, and: I don't know any, and: not anymore. Then she clenches her fists, her tiny body rocking with disappointment and rage. You lost me, she accuses. Maybe, I say. Bring me home, she pleads. How? I ask, even though I know the steps to this waltz, can see the circles worn into the floorboards and feel them in the soles of my feet. Open your eyes, she says. I am. Where is your wonder? Your awe? I gave them away, I tell her. So find more. I shake my head. Open your eyes. They are open! But all I can see is pain and fear and suffering and emptiness and death. Open them wider. It hurts. They cannot open as wide as yours. Be brave. I am not. Tell me a story. My eyes flicker to the bookshelf and the books I can no longer open. To long-expired daydreams left to curdle and rot. How do I tell the girl who loved nothing more than stories that I am too afraid to navigate them? Be brave, she says, but she has never choked on the words of a page, never drowned in the images of a screen. She has yet to learn that she is not the hero. That sometimes the hero leaves people behind. That you don't know until you turn the page who will be lost and who will be left to mourn them. And so she can't understand why I cannot turn the page. Please, she begs. Please, I echo. My house is haunted by a little girl whose greedy eyes, wide and angry like the ocean, devoured so much she forgot how to close them, and became a woman who could only look away. @amnotpoetry
city girl
Give me the living lights of these high-rise constellations, and not just the pilgrimage of a billion lonely suns. Give me the astringent musk of a dozen factory workers on the crowded bus home; let our lungs pass oxygen like relay runners on the same team. I'd rather be kept awake by the drunken testament to life on the other side of paper-thin walls, than spend my nights pretending the universe is emptier than it already is.
Mom, why do you swear so much?
Because it's the only thing I've got to prove I'm not a child aside from thirty some-odd years and years aren't quite as heavy as they like to say so I'm afraid my soul might be so light it will float away before its time and leave me here behind counting heartbeats like the ticks of a clock always keeping pace unable to remember when last it raced when last it broke the rules I've too few sins beneath my belt too little skin beneath my nails and too much across my knees that never knew the pavement's kiss and so continue to insist that I've not bled enough for this right of passage and these silly words increase my pulse and weigh me down enough that maybe I won't take off in search of the conclusion to the story of my youth but mostly because I fucking want to.
love language: a burning haibun
I love in apples: crisp-fresh, candied, or wrapped in my great-grandma's pastry. Her recipes were my first language, a silent tongue of peace; when have fruit and spice ever spoken of hatred? But making pie crusts with my mother taught me that words are not enough, some things have to be attempted and failed over and over until the knowledge trusts your hands so well as to call them home. When I bake a pie, every bite is a kiss years in the making. It gives without expectation. I can think of no purer way to love than this.I love in apples: crisp-fresh, candied, or wrapped inmy great-grandma'spastry. Herrecipes were my first language, a silent tongue of peace; when havefruit and spiceever spoken of hatred? But making pie crusts with my mothertaught methat words are notenough, some things havetobe attempted and failed over and over until the knowledgetrustsyour handsso well asto call them home. When I bakea pie, every biteis a kissyears in the making. It giveswithout expectation. I can think of nopurer way tolove, than this.My great-grandma's recipes were my first language. Fruit and spice taught me enough: to trust your hands, to call them home. A pie is a kiss without expectation, pure love.My great-grandma'srecipes were myfirst language. Fruit and spice taught meenough:to trustyour hands,tocall them home. A pie is a kiss withoutexpectation,pure love. grandma's first language fruit and spice taught me to trust to expect pure love (note: if you're not familiar with a burning haibun, it's a really fun format where you write a passage in prose and then erase portions to make a poem. From there you continue to erase until you are left with a haiku)
between
Closed doors
are so much more
enticing
than open ones.
Odd or familiar,
cherished or abandoned,
they lead everywhere
all at once.
Infinite constellations
collapse like dominos
into singularity with
the twist of a knob.
What am I afraid of?
Flowers pressed to paper
lose the vibrancy
of impermanence.
Let me exist in the
moments between moments
in the space between
thought and action.
Let me persist
forever in the breath
before the door begins
to open.
Work in progress.
This is the poem I can't write. I've never hit the backspace so many times, never scribbled out so many lines. This is the ball of yarn I'm not sure I'll ever untangle. The knot I've left unbrushed since childhood, but now it's so matted, it breaks all my scissors and combs. Look at me hiding behind metaphors because I'm afraid I'll cut my fingers on the point. Because the point is that I use other women to determine my self-worth. That I'm never sure if I'm good enough unless I'm the best and there is always someone better isn't there? That another women's success feels like a personal attack, and shit I don't want to talk about this but I think we need to talk about this, because every time I see a provocative woman I hate myself, and I hate her a little bit too. And I get the feeling I'm not the only one who uses an outdated rubric to determine their grade. The only one who needs a grade to feel they have value. God I want to scrub this off so hard that it stings. This inky stain ignored for so long it's become a tattoo so ugly I'd rather pretend it's a birthmark. Like envy was the sin assigned to me by God. Some days I look in the mirror and think I'm beautiful, not despite, not in comparison to. Just truth. And then I hear an old coworker telling me the hottest women are the ones who don't know it. A chorus of lamentation about my fat thighs. All the careful reminders that boys will jump when offered something better. And there's always something better isn't there? Now I've taken you down to the bottom of the well. This is where the echoes live, the place where I point fingers at corpses. Where I use other women's bodies as stepping stones to try to escape. Because we all want to escape. But this isn't a birthmark. And I don't believe in sin. Or God. Or unsolvable problems. So why the hell do I believe that anyone could be better? Or worse? And I think I'm scared to write because I don't know how it ends. I wish I knew how to translate thought into feeling. To transfigure conviction into belief. But I don't. I don't.
Amy Notdorft 