come sail away (with aliens? I don’t understand that song)

update: it’s too windy to go sailing? one of these days it’ll happen…

First sailing class is today. I hope it goes well, because I can only remember about 75% of how to rig the boat. That’s without looking at it, though, so I’m sure it’ll come back once I’m there. I have started watching Battlestar Galactica. This is not good for my productivity. All I do is watch it now. But I also want to be writing and reading more, so hopefully I can figure out some way to combine the two. I say this as if it’s difficult; it’s really just a matter of not being lazy.

In the meantime, my first creative writing poem (mediocre):

canine teeth

Fluffy had a black nib of a tail and
oversized paws when she arrived.
Alice named her Fluffy, which our parents had
accepted over my candid suggestion of
“Dumptruck”
as the lesser of two evils.
The day my mother brought her home
it snowed.
My sister and I pressed
our faces against the window,
tasted how cold the glass was.
We watched as my mother unloaded
a simple brown box
that whimpered just softly,
more softly than the bleach-white snow
of heaven
that warmed us with its lightness
and fell outside from my
glass-fogging anticipation
extended towards this small living thing
being brought up the front walk towards our lives
in December in New England.

“Oh isn’t she the cutest,”
my mother would say,
“you could just eat her with a spoon!”
Fluffy was, in reality, no longer the quiet,
fragile thing that came in a blanket-lined box
shrouded in winter,
but actually a small-scale disaster
of garbage smells and wetness
that had succeeded in her coup d’état
of the household.
My mother loved Fluffy.
She would confuse our names with the dog’s,
calling her Jonathan and me Fluffy.
It bothered me when I was young;
I would worry in small ways
that my mother loved Fluffy more than me.

I grew out of it.

But years later my mother will slowly
begin to again forget,
and as she goes senile will again call for
her small friend, her only child
who did not grow up and leave her,
but who rather simply winged away, as my
mother one day will,
into a
snow-scarred sky.

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