Margaret Hasse
mmhasse@gmail.com

Water Sign 


Two-year-old Charlie loves water,

loves the force of water  
in gutters, pipes, the second hose
bought to keep peace between brothers
who spray tomatoes with the intensity
of fire fighters at a five alarm fire,

loves the sources of water: 
faucet, penis, rain, spit.

He longs like a pilgrim for wet places
where his worship is 
complete submersion: 
bathtub, swim pool, lake.
 
To praise water,
he secludes himself in the bathroom.
Ascending a stepping stool to the sink, 
he opens valves to an endless rush 
of new pressure in copper pipes. 

So much water, why not share it? 
Give it away until it seeps 
through the floorboards,
showers into the kitchen,
fills the bowls on the table,
flows on the heads 
of his amazed mother and brother
who do not immediately recognize 
that grace might descend like this –
inconveniently –
from a complete enthusiast 
who needs to be forgiven
for being generous 
with whatever he loves.





The Mouth, Its Run


At three years old, Charlie stuttered badly,
a cold engine, hesitating, stalling.
His Good morning created a gaggle
of consonants so drawn-out his older brother 

behind a citadel of cereal boxes at breakfast 
asked: Who taught him to talk like Porky Pig?
I despised my students that year,
the ones who pierced their tongues,

hammered barbells through flesh, 
sucked metal tacks on the roof 
of their mouths, making slobber
and airy lisps on purpose,

while daily our blameless boy, sentenced
to the hard labor of language, his face 
flushed with the effort of Hello,
chewed the cud of repeated sounds.

The speech therapist advised patience 
with what can be a passing phase. 
Don’t finish his sentence.
Ignore his impediment.

Give the horse his head and he’ll race free.
What was predicted came true.
Loose reins unleashed
the great gallop of speech.





Changing Voice


Because he is only thirteen, his anger
flares, a gassed fire.

Because he is only thirteen, he snarls like a cur,
dislikes everything about his parents, 

especially what they like,
books they read, jokes they tell.

Because his voice trips and falls,
as if on a loose rug, he breaks into tears.

Because the salt caves in the pits
of his arms are newly rank, he locks 

himself in the bathroom for a hot 
shower, steams paper from the wall.

Because he is small for his age, 
he disparages his brother’s thighs

carried by those long bones:
You’re flabby, he screams, dangling

upside down like a bat from
the upper berth of their bunk bed.

Because he struggles to read 
when others kids are quick

to spit words from their mouths, 
he runs as if to surpass the wind

on a windy day, bedtime on a summer day,
chores and studying and rules every day.

Because he is only thirteen, sometimes
he still curls in his mother’s arms, 

grubbing for stories he stars in:
how he could climb from his crib

to claim his own baby bottle,
how he’s graded A+ in music

for notes his trumpet hangs high 
like the sound of wild birds

over the heads of other kids
who can’t believe he’s only thirteen.

​
-all poems reprinted from Milk and Tides