Two poems, Amy Marques

Misundershared

My grandmother always kept a notebook

overflown with wonderings on whether anyone cares

about things left unsaid, unheard, misundershared

always writing, often feeling less than understood

Overflown with wonderings on whether anyone cares,

I temper thoughts,               pace the volume of speech

always writing, often feeling less than understood

crafting whole landscapes to explain the inexpressible 

I temper thoughts,             pace the volume of speech

for there are those who care to listen and join in

crafting whole landscapes to explain the inexpressible

because shared language translates the misheard  

For there are those who care to listen and join in

bravely, tenderly, exploring the spaces between

knowing how shared language translates the misheard

willing to plow and plant in common ground 

Bravely, tenderly, exploring the spaces between

attentive to sunrises, gathering clouds, seasons

willing to plow and plant in common ground

nurturing seeds of truths

Attentive to sunrises, gathering clouds, seasons

of birth, of growth, of dormancy, of decay

nurturing seeds of blossoming truths

making time to harvest words, share stories

Of birth, of growth, of dormancy, of decay

things left unsaid, unheard, misundershared,

making time to harvest words, share stories:

my grandmother always kept a notebook.

Overture

Tell your daughter about the day of her birth

Tell her how you said let’s go, but not 

calm, not as together as you are now

maybe even panicking a little, driving

her mother to the clinic with the speed

of a glaucomic grandmother behind 

the wheel of a jeep you bought 

with a first grownup paycheck 

and how you stopped the car to yell

I’m having a baby to the closed clinic door

and how the nurse opened

what?

And you explained that it was your wife

having a baby and you could feel your heart

contract and blood push when they said

it was time, but not time, so there was time

to settle, to hold her mother’s 

hand until your daughter came 

perfect

and cried perfectly and breathed

until she didn’t and you didn’t and you didn’t

Tell her they grabbed her and ran

and her mother said go

and you raced to follow, to ask, to protect 

but they didn’t explain and she didn’t cry

then they said she needed help to breathe

to be

that maybe she wouldn’t learn, wouldn’t walk, 

wouldn’t

so they took her in an incubator, and you rushed,

chased them like a racer, like a father 

bargaining with God, with life, for

days, you sped from child to mother,

helpless hopeful prayers

threating God with boycotts of faith

pleading promises

waiting

You still remember, although it’s been

twenty-three years and your daughter’s fine—

has always been fine—she knows you know that

But maybe she doesn’t know that on the day she arrived

you almost lost her and you said you’d give 

life to protect her

and all you’ve done since

is try.