May 22, 2020

Ann Tweedy

VANISHING POINT

When my son was born, his immense need
and my ability to answer it were like the two hemispheres
of the world. Sometimes I was afraid and bewildered
yet comforted in knowing what my purpose was.
When he slept in my bed between bouts of nursing,
I’d throw my arm lightly across his chest
like a cave-dwelling woman making sure that predators
had to contend with me first. I remember
marveling at his acceptance of my arm
on his sleeping form at six months, nine months, a year.
His uncomplicated thought was that it was good that I was there.
If I turned from one side to the other so my back
faced him, he’d wake up crying within seconds.

Five and a half is a different story. Now, he throws
his forty pounds around. Until a few weeks ago,
to sleep in his own bed, he needed me to read to him
then cuddle him. This often led to my falling asleep
for the rest of the night. But now
he needs the whole bed to himself. Could I sit on the floor
next to the bed and read?

I love to put my arm around him and smell the sweet
spring air on the top of his head. But if I’ve eaten garlic or drunk coffee
he says, Mommy, your breath smells horrible!
I’ve gotten him to change it to Your breath doesn’t smell
that good—maybe you should brush your teeth, but really it makes
very little difference.

And sometimes when he has
a Lego vision, like a space station or a control tower,
only his dad will do. Daddy knows more about them,
he says, but really our visions are too dissimilar,
and he’s like Chihuly, wanting minions to execute what’s in his head.

I think of my grandmother crying
when I told her at five that I didn’t like
a doll she’d given me because its lined blue irises
stared vacantly. My dismay then was rooted in
the thought that adults were supposed to be stronger, less fragile
than the sturdy kids who were waiting their turn
to rule the Earth. But here I am.

from Rattle #67, Spring 2020
Students of Kim Addonizio

__________

Ann Tweedy: “I studied with Kim Addonizio at the Ashland Writers’ Conference in Ashland, Oregon, in the summer of 2001. Kim taught me to trust my own voice and to embrace the gritty, unwieldy parts of my life in my writing. She was a generous critic, and I was amazed at the quality of the work that I and other workshop participants produced as a result of the exercises she assigned. In addition to assigning in-class writing, she had us workshop some poems we brought from home. At the beginning of the class, my laptop stopped working, and I panicked at the prospect of not being able to share with her the poems I had brought. Thankfully, I got it back up and running and was able to benefit from her invaluable critiques. I included a couple of the poems we workshopped that summer in my first full-length book. I had discovered Kim’s work at a women’s bookstore in Portland a year or two before that summer workshop and was immediately drawn to the exuberant sadness that characterized much of her early work. I am so glad I had the chance to work with her early in my writing career!” (web)

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April 13, 2010

Ann Tweedy

NATURE ESSAY

did you know, if you have a yard
in the right climate, it’s probably patrolled
by one male hummingbird? like the god
who knows every hair on your head,
this bird has memorized each flower
in your yard, including the precise times
at which their nectar cups fill up.

in this way, he can manage
his realm (and his sugar fixes)
efficiently. when he’s not busy drinking,
he catches insects and defends your yard
against intruder hummingbirds.
so, if, like most americans, you harbor
many secret fears, one of which is being
overrun, you can delete that one.

female hummingbirds, by contrast,
tend to lay low so as not to rile
their touchy counterparts. their reasons
to survive are bigger than whatever charge
they’d get from gorging on nectar cups.

many different conclusions can be drawn.
for one, it seems clear that the image
of the hummer with its long beak buried
in a trumpet-like flower is indeed phallic.
another is that, for the benefit of survival,
it is sometimes necessary to weigh
the costs of pleasure carefully. finally,
you might apprehend that you do not really
own your property: some hummingbird probably
has an equally valid claim and knows it more intimately.

from Rattle #23, Summer 2005

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