Poetry Medicine for the Soul is a podcast inviting poets to share and examine their work, produced and moderated by John Gillespie. Episode 5 features Amanda Russell and Susan Ayres. Amanda Russell reads “Rediscovery” from her chapbook Processing. Susan Ayres reads “Unforeseeable” from her chapbook Walk Like the Bird Flies. Both poets are part of the Fort Worth Poetry Society. Rediscovery By Amanda Russell I was told not to write this. Not yet. That I’d have more to say years from now. But I do not need more to say. There is no someday like this day. Mark it now: When the kids leave the house, so will we. We’ll go somewhere / anywhere, maybe on a walk, a long walk, a very long walk and be gone for months … we’ll walk until we’ve left. Until we’ve stepped out of the roles we’ve spent years putting on. We’ll peel them off like old skins, let them drop on sharp rocks. Tell me we will make it to then. Tell me every evening, when we meet in the kitchen and wash the last of the dishes that we are already on our way. Unforeseeable by Susan Ayres Remember that one grain of grit can ruin a whole dish. —Katherine Anne Porter Sometimes an otherwise fine Greek meal will have grit in the spinach. Your plate overflows with pan-fried perch, sautéed baby portabella mushrooms, rice and spinach, when you comment, My, this spinach is gritty. Your lover, the cook, will rest his hand on the table and glare at you long after you eat the spinach and your words. Sometimes an oak limb suddenly will break, crushing a car or jogger one dry summer’s day. Once, a limb crashed through a bedroom window, killing a mother and toddler, who’d run to her bed frightened by the storm. Once a limb crushed a jogger, who lived to become a paraplegic governor. Sometimes a green hummingbird will hover inches away when you are quietly reading in the garden. And you will imagine it’s your recently dead mother greeting you, showing off, checking in. Just like she’s the mourning dove perched on the eave, cooing at daybreak. You see her everywhere saying, take joy in being alive, love the grit. Somewhere a dog is barking. A small dog with the kind of bark that hurts your ears. Two hummingbirds settle in a high vitex branch, then fly off, looking for nectar, cheeping in short, high-pitched chirps that sound like toy ratchets. As usual, doves sit on the telephone lines. Once I found a hummingbird nest lying on the ground. Inside were tiny eggs I mourned.
Poetry Medicine for the Soul is a podcast inviting poets to share and examine their work, produced and moderated by John Gillespie. Episode 5 features Amanda Russell and Susan Ayres. Amanda Russell reads “Rediscovery” from her chapbook Processing. Susan Ayres reads “Unforeseeable” from her chapbook Walk Like the Bird Flies. Both poets are part of the Fort Worth Poetry Society.
Rediscovery
By Amanda Russell
I was told
not to write this.
Not yet. That I’d have
more to say years from now.
But I do not need
more to say.
There is no someday
like this day.
Mark it now:
When the kids
leave the house,
so will we. We’ll go
somewhere / anywhere,
maybe on a walk,
a long walk, a very
long walk and be gone
for months … we’ll walk
until we’ve left.
Until we’ve stepped
out of the roles
we’ve spent years
putting on. We’ll peel
them off like old skins,
let them drop
on sharp rocks. Tell me
we will make it
to then. Tell me every
evening, when we meet
in the kitchen
and wash the last
of the dishes
that we are
already
on our way.
Unforeseeable
by Susan Ayres
Remember that one grain of grit can ruin a whole dish. —Katherine Anne Porter
Sometimes an otherwise fine Greek
meal will have grit in the spinach.
Your plate overflows with pan-fried perch, sautéed
baby portabella mushrooms, rice and spinach, when
you comment, My, this spinach is gritty. Your lover,
the cook, will rest his hand on the table and glare at
you long after you eat the spinach
and your words. Sometimes an oak limb suddenly
will break, crushing a car or jogger one dry
summer’s day. Once, a limb crashed through
a bedroom window, killing a mother and toddler,
who’d run to her bed
frightened by the storm. Once a limb
crushed a jogger, who lived to become a
paraplegic
governor. Sometimes a green hummingbird will hover
inches away when you are quietly reading in the
garden. And you will imagine it’s your recently dead
mother greeting you, showing off,
checking in. Just like she’s the mourning dove
perched on the eave, cooing
at daybreak. You see her everywhere
saying, take joy in being alive, love the grit.
Somewhere a dog is barking. A small dog with
the kind of bark that hurts your ears. Two
hummingbirds settle in a high vitex branch, then
fly off, looking for nectar, cheeping in short,
high-pitched chirps that sound like toy ratchets.
As usual, doves sit on the telephone lines. Once
I found a hummingbird nest lying on the
ground. Inside were tiny eggs
I mourned.
Amanda Russell is an editor at The Comstock Review. Her poems have appeared or will appear in Lily Poetry Review, Pirene’s Fountain and Gulf Stream Magazine. She is the author of Barren Years (Finishing Line Press, 2019) and Processing (Main Street Rag, 2024). She is a member of the Fort Worth Poetry Society and the Calling All Poets Series. She lives in the DFW Metroplex with her husband, two kids and a labrahound named Lilly. Learn more at www.poetrussell.wordpress.com.
Susan Ayres is the author of Walk Like the Bird Flies (Finishing Line, 2023) and Red Cardinal, White Snow (Main Street Rag, 2024). Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and her poems and translations from the Spanish have appeared in numerous journals. She lives in Fort Worth and teaches at Texas A&M University School of Law. Learn more at www.psusanayres.com.