February 2017
Robbi Nester
rknester@gmail.com
rknester@gmail.com
I am a transplant from Philadelphia, PA and retired college educator who has become part of the thriving poetry community of Southern California, which includes some of our fellow VVers. I keep myself busy writing, doing open mics and other readings as often as possible, practicing yoga, and enjoying the gorgeous climate in this area. In the age of Trump, I have joined with others to create a community of resistance.
Valentine’s Day
February was a red month
when I was ten, though frost
patterned the pane
and heaps of dull grey
snow cluttered the walk.
For weeks, I’d gather up
my crimson forces—
construction paper,
doilies, red ribbons,
glitter, and the rest,
reflecting on the heart.
I knew the organ in my chest
looked nothing like the
rounded two-winged circles
I would cut with careful
scissors, though the real one
had its double-chambers too,
veins like ribbons, beating
a tattoo all day and night.
Was this knot of flesh really
home to the affections
or just a bit of meat
like the chicken hearts
I’d spoon from mother’s soup?
I struggled to imagine all the heat
the heart was fabled to inspire.
I loved my dog, my parents,
my best friend, afternoons
spent at the window, book open
on my lap. I even eyed the fellow
down the block, but couldn’t
fathom how that simple pump
could prime not just one
body, but all of life,
love, but also jealousy
and hate, because these feelings
could not be pried apart.
What did these paper stand-ins
really signify? Not much.
And yet, I hoped for one
from every kid in class.
At ten, Valentine’s a recess
for the heart—all the sweetness,
nothing of experience—the sting.
Valentine’s Day
February was a red month
when I was ten, though frost
patterned the pane
and heaps of dull grey
snow cluttered the walk.
For weeks, I’d gather up
my crimson forces—
construction paper,
doilies, red ribbons,
glitter, and the rest,
reflecting on the heart.
I knew the organ in my chest
looked nothing like the
rounded two-winged circles
I would cut with careful
scissors, though the real one
had its double-chambers too,
veins like ribbons, beating
a tattoo all day and night.
Was this knot of flesh really
home to the affections
or just a bit of meat
like the chicken hearts
I’d spoon from mother’s soup?
I struggled to imagine all the heat
the heart was fabled to inspire.
I loved my dog, my parents,
my best friend, afternoons
spent at the window, book open
on my lap. I even eyed the fellow
down the block, but couldn’t
fathom how that simple pump
could prime not just one
body, but all of life,
love, but also jealousy
and hate, because these feelings
could not be pried apart.
What did these paper stand-ins
really signify? Not much.
And yet, I hoped for one
from every kid in class.
At ten, Valentine’s a recess
for the heart—all the sweetness,
nothing of experience—the sting.
©2016 Robbi Nester
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