I woke up this morning
and somehow I knew
that room bolted shut for years
had been broken into
and I knew I had to investigate
wearily, hopefully
thinking I would find dust
outdated magazines
grown brittle with age
dry, withered plants
Instead
I found
an ocean
Making careful note
of the smashed–in lock
I placed a trembling hand
on the broad ancient door
inhaling as I did
that old familiar
scent
breath traveling
down, down, down
to a deep part
of my belly
and I was shocked
because this ordinary breath
began to burn
like a stiff shot
of rum
imbibed upon returning from
the winter’s cold
I should have known right then
to stop
pretend I never knew
about the break in
But how could I?
And then
pushing the door ajar
and peeking in
I saw that glint of ocean
placid, beguiling,
idyllic even
and I though
perhaps.
Perhaps I’ll
wade a little
looking for keepsakes
on the shore
perhaps if I bring in
the largest, gaudiest
plastic beach ball
I can find
it may be possible
to use this room again
But all the while
a still persistent voice
kept asking
But where
are all the withered plants?
The magazines?
The dust?
What will you do
if wading in one day
searching for shells
you feel compelled
to swim
or
when the soft breeze
changes
to a squall?
How can you keep
an ocean
in your heart
and not be
terrified?

Copyright Iole Damaskinos 2005

Soul Holes

“There are various techniques for pushing the stuffing material into the empty spaces of the body and limbs. If the pattern is simple, the stuffing can be done all at once. Usually the opening is at the back or bottom of the body and the head will be stuffed first. Push the stuffing firmly up into the head area. The more stretch in the fabric, the more shaping can be accomplished. Usually the head and neck will be stuffed quite firmly. Some patterns will call for a support in the neck area such as a dowel or cardboard tube. If the stuffing is done firmly enough the support may not be needed. The material used for stuffing will almost always shift and compact over time, so that firmer initial stuffing will keep the shape longer and better.”

Soul Holes

That night you showed me
The hole in your soul
I wanted to say: “Here, take this!
Fill it up for goodness’ sake!”
Imagining the quivering outstretched palm
Wide open
Cupping soul–stuffing
Instead my hand flew
In a ridiculous Napoleonic gesture
To my chest
Under the satin lining of my coat
My fingers moved fastidiously
Shoving stuffing into tiny moth holes
To prevent them
From getting large
Like yours
It’s a funny substance, soul–stuffing
It does not transplant well
One has to spin one’s own
And so we sat
You with the wind howling through
You
And I
Wishing I knew where to begin
Wishing I could at least lend you
A thread.

Copyright Iole Damaskinos 2005

Untitled

A Tale of Two Cultures
Inspired by being a slightly crazed, sleep deprived, baby & diaper bag-toting mom who frequents hip student haunts.

I know a thing or two my friend
So don’t talk to me about narrowly averting disaster.
I know a thing or two: about crusty crumpets–and the like,
Things you may not know overmuch about.
I see you staring at me, thinking that I must have lost my squirrel
But I see through you– you with your orange coat
and purple alligator briefcase
Don’t you know your style is passé?
The zeitgeist has moved on since then.
You didn’t think I knew about the zeitgeist, did you.
Well, let me tell you something: I know a thing or two.
And moreover, I have been around.
You can glare at me all you want,
But you know I am too seasoned to be considered arrogant.
Only twenty-somethings can be obnoxious, and I am thirty-three.
Don’t hate me for my casual hip.
Don’t hate me for wearing this red-walled-crumbling-ceiling-fan-café
Like an old slipper shoe.
Don’t hate me for being naturally unimpressed–
The kind of unimpressed you cultivate before your mirror daily.
Here, let me tell you something.
I’ll let you into a secret: I once tried hard to be uncommon too.
But ever since my squirrel ran away, I’ve given up.
I fight my battles elsewhere.
And this here, this perfectly frayed hole you see
Puncturing my droopy saffron-colored sweater–
It came from accidentally setting my kitchen towel on fire
While preparing goat stew for my husband
And listening through the baby monitor
To my baby
Breathing through his afternoon nap.

Copyright Iole Damaskinos 2005