Drive Straight into Fear
I am afraid of the dark, of getting lost,
of driving in any bad weather: fog, snow, rain, ice.
That feeling of not knowing if I am even on the road,
the glare, the oncoming lights, the unfamiliar,
the wipers that can’t keep up, the panic,
the unremembered way,
but I force myself to think of the moon garden:
the white-winged moths, the angel trumpets,
evening primrose, night phlox
all dancing in their nightgowns, unafraid.
I drive straight into fear and make it heaven.
Deserted-ness
I’m sensing I’ve had the wrong outlook
on this pilgrimage into the desert.
It wasn’t supposed to be a retreat, an escape,
a time of recuperation. Rather, it was meant to be a revolution
with wrestling, protesting, repentance, letting go, dying.
It’s not easy but necessary for something new to emerge.
I see ahead a web of the silk-weaver
so strong, resilient.
Strands wrap up death which will become her nourishment.
Others hold the eggs of the unborn.
Joy and Pain Are Married
We battle with contentment. It feels like settling.
There is a roughness.
At times the only evidence of connection is the friction;
the rubbing up against each other.
The years scrape away the hard layers, leaving abrasions,
leaving us vulnerable, raw, our souls exposed.
Some say the sting just means we have loved deeply.
There is no knowing what a marriage will require of you:
all the little ways you have to stay,
the moment by moment practice, starting again,
the innumerable, seemingly insignificant days that add up
to something soft, even lovely.
Mure-Made
Seeing how I was a made, mured in two lives;
a sea-being half human, half divine,
I longed to be whole, made one.
I yearned to walk on the safe sea-side, where the harbour holds.
I longed to dive deep, see inside, avoiding the shallow.
I wanted to be fierce, yet I was inconsolable.
I wanted to be kind, yet I was untamable.
I sang loudly. I gave away my voice.
I was sand. I was glass.
Then the horizon showed me how the ocean met the sky,
together becoming one unstoppable blue. Beautiful.
Leaven For Her Soul
The recipe seemed too overwhelming.
Others asked me if it was worth the time, the trouble
but a little bit of hope for the future is what I needed
in these uncertain and troubling times.
The first day I fed her. She bubbled as I curated her wild side.
The next day, I fed her hunger again, gave her leaven for her soul
stretched her tender body, lifted her, folded her onto herself
over and over. At times I couldn’t help but squeeze her.
I allowed her plenty of time to rest, gave her time to rise.
I did my best to shape her, slipping under her rough edges
smoothing, soothing her, dusting her gently at first
then more profusely. I flipped her upside down, right side up
cupped my hands around her soft sides.
I covered her, warmed her, scored her down the middle
releasing her the burden of cracking open wide.
She faced the heat as I stood by her side.
I was so proud of what she had become over time
proud of myself too. I had birthed two lovely loaves
of bread into the love-starved world—
one for me, one for you.
Angela Hoffman’s poetry collections include Resurrection Lily (Kelsay Books, 2022) and Olly Olly Oxen Free (forthcoming, Kelsay Books, 2023). She placed third in the WFOP Kay Saunders Memorial Emerging Poet in 2022 and was a runner up in the 2023 Wisconsin Sijo competition.
Her poems have been published internationally and have appeared or are forthcoming in Solitary Plover, Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets’ Museletter and Calendar, Agape Review, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Your Daily Poem, Writing In A Woman’s Voice, Moss Piglet, Amethyst Review, The Orchards Poetry Journal, POETiCA REViEW, Wilda Morris’s Poetry Challenge, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Whispers and Echoes, Muleskinner Journal, Blue Heron Review, The Poet Anthology: Our Changing Earth, Volume 1. And Amethyst Review Poetry Anthology: All Shall Be Well.
She has written a poem a day since the start of the pandemic. Angela lives in rural Wisconsin.
https://www.facebook.com/angelahoffmanpoet/
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