Tag: lesson

Lessons in Walking by Kip Knott

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Lessons in Walking

The day my son was born, I worried whether or not I would be able to teach him how to walk. I knew I would have to hold his hands and lift him off the ground just enough—but not all the way—so that he could still feel the earth beneath his feet. I knew, too, that I would have to let him fall from time to time so he would come to know the joy of getting up on his own. I knew that there would be pain and frustration and anger at me for not always protecting or helping him. And over the decades, he has fallen, gotten up, fallen again, gotten mad, and gotten up again, all on his own. But today, after he picked me up from another in a series of nasty falls of my own, I’ve begun to worry whether or not I can teach my son the proper way to die.

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Kip Knott is a writer, photographer, and part-time art dealer who travels the back roads of the Midwest and Appalachia in search of lost art treasures. His writing has appeared Best Microfiction and The Wigleaf Top 50. His book of stories, Family Haunts, is available from Louisiana Literature Press.

Three Poems by Hilary King

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A Lesson from Inflatables.

Mornings, let’s nap on the lawn.
Let our plans become puddles
of red, green, and reindeer-colored plastic.
Late afternoon, we’ll plug back in,
fill ourselves with air, sway a little
as the stars come out to see us.
If we topple over, knocked
by winter winds,
have faith that every season
strength needs help to rise,
the sun, a song, a friend
to flip the switch, pull you upright,
tall and beaming on the winter grass.

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How to Do Holiday Mail

Pluck from the crush of bills
and catalogs the stiff squares
and rectangles, gold embossing
making every return address
an elegance.
Do not open them–
Stack them instead.
Wrap them in red.
Add to the pile every day.
Late Christmas morning,
after the gifts have been pillaged
and the floor tumbleweeded
with boxes and tissue,
sit near the tree, near the family
installing batteries or reading new books,
Sit with your glass or holiday mug
and unwrap the gift of the familiar and beloved.

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Holiday Calendar

Nevermind the garland sparkling
over the Butterballs
or the panettone crenellated
over discounted bags
of Halloween candy.
Keep your own calendar:
A day saved for baking or
an afternoon of wrapping,
on the floor with ribbon and tape,
a bow stuck to the dog’s paw.
The night time car ride with the kids,
milkshakes thick with peppermint,
Mariah Carey on the radio.
Look at those lights!
Stores, ads, all the oiled machines mean
to spin your time into coin.
Toss the catalogs. Stay away from stores,
keep your hand in your own pocket,
on your own golden hours.

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Originally from the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia, Hilary King is a poet now living in the San Francisco Bay Area of California. Her poems have appeared in Ploughshares, ONE ART, Salamander, Fourth River, and other publications. She is an editor for DMQ Review, and has been nominated for multiple awards. Her book Stitched on Me was published by Riot in Your Throat Press in 2024.

Two Poems by Andrea Maxine Recto

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I was, I am a mother

I held you in my arms for ten hours.
It wasn’t long enough.
But the nurses told me they had to take you away.
I could barely get the words out.
I’m not ready. Just a little bit longer. Please.
My husband was sitting in the chair beside me.
Hunched over, his eyes were red and puffy
and his lips were trembling something fierce.
And he was rubbing his hands, over and over,
a habit I hadn’t seen since the day I got into a car accident
and they had to call him at work.
When the drugs wore off,
I woke up to him rubbing his hands raw.
Today, he was rubbing them so hard,
I was surprised I didn’t see any bone.
He got up to put his hand over mine.
It’s time, honey.
Our little girl.
Mere moments of air when we had already imagined a lifetime with her.
I had tried my best to keep her in,
to keep her safe and warm in her cocoon,
but my belly wasn’t having it.
When they delivered her, I was so sure I heard her cry.
The doctor who delivered her said softly but firmly
that our little girl made no sound at all.
I wanted to scream, A mother always knows!
What did he know about motherhood?
My grief was almost too much to carry that first year.
So much so that when people referred
to my pregnancy, my being a mother, or my baby girl
in the past tense, I corrected them.
I sometimes still do.

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Lesson

I was 12. You had left your door slightly ajar,
so I stopped to watch you, careful not to disturb the floorboards
or make a sound. You sat at your dresser mirror,
brushing your long, dark hair. I hoped one day,
mine would be just as long and beautiful. But today,
something was wrong. You were brushing so hard that clumps of hair
were gathering around your feet.
You finally stopped, slammed your brush down,
and, to my horror, struck the right side of your face.
It went red immediately. I covered my mouth,
hoping you didn’t hear me gasp. Idiot, you said through gritted teeth.
And I could hear the pain in your voice.
Grabbing your favorite red lipstick, you angrily
swipe it across your lips, only to smear it off
with disdain moments later.
Last week, you brought a boy home
and said you had never been happier. Mama’s brows
were furrowed, and Papa’s face was wrinkled, but I smiled.
You were happy. I remember how you
had your hair curled that day, how the soft ringlets bounced
when you spoke, how they framed your face.
You kissed me on the cheek when I said you looked pretty.
I don’t know what’s going on. If I should run in
and put my arms around you. If your cheek needs some ice.
If I need to call someone.
You start to cry, grabbing the sweater draped across your chair
to bury your mouth in, a feeble attempt at drowning
out the wounded sounds you made. I don’t think I can
ever forget them. I run to my bedroom, my chest tightening,
and curl up underneath the blankets to cry. I don’t know why
it hurts so. But I hope one day you’ll tell me.

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Andrea Maxine Recto is a Spanish-Filipino writer and poet living in Manila. Her poetry explores the themes of womanhood, grief, love, darkness, and introspection. She was recently published in TurnAround’s 14th Purple Poetry Book, with more forthcoming in the Santa Clara Review and elsewhere.