May 2017
Joe Cottonwood
joecottonwood@gmail.com
I like to build stuff: houses, children, books. I’m a carpenter, plumber, electrician. I’m also a father, husband, grandfather. And always I’ve been a writer. For most of my life I created novels. Meanwhile I’ve always conducted a secret affair with poetry. Then a few years ago I surprised her, got down on one knee. She was hesitant, afraid the passion wouldn’t survive the scrutiny of strangers. But it has. Scrutiny not a problem since poetry and I have found we can stroll in public without a stitch and nobody will bat an eyelash because — and you know this if you are a poet — nobody will notice. And I’m besotted. Still crazy after all these years.

​Birthday, 1979


After scary sickness, weeks in bed,
today I’m better.
Head clear. Body hollow, sixteen
pounds shed in sweat and snot.

So I call Dial-A-Lawyer, 
write a will by phone.
Drive to the city, Social Security 
to register my daughter 
who is unknown by the state,
born at home 
one year to this date. 
Bring her along as proof.
Paperwork. 
Plan a death and record a birth.

My beloved bakes a cake. One candle.
I’m still a bit shaky. Can’t rest.
Where’s my tool belt?
It’s time to build toys. A wagon. 
A house. Soon. 
A life for this daughter.





Bombland


She of four years, nine months,
wide eyes, fragile bones,
wakes screaming, runs through
the dark house. I catch her.
"I can't stop thinking about bombs."
I hold her. Hot flesh. Rabbit pulse.
"I just couldn't stop thinking.
They scare me.
You know where they come from? 
They come from Bombland. 
I hope they always stay there. 
I hate the people who make bombs."





My Daughter Says


My daughter says
every tree has a soul.
Some are good, some are bad.
But always, a soul.
My daughter is young enough
to know these things.

My daughter says
some trees also have a spirit.
(But only the good trees.)
People, too.
She is old enough 
to say these things.

Guided by spirit, we can grow 
from the crack in a boulder.
We can lift sidewalks.
We bend and yet are strong.
We flower, we bear fruit, we give seed.
We are where the raccoon sleeps, 
the hawk nests, the monkeys play.

Without the spirit we twist, 
we wither, we break.
With the spirit our roots take hold. 
My daughter knows. So young, so old.
“Birthday, 1979” first published in Snapdragon
“My Daughter Says” first published in Dove Tales​
© 2017 Joe Cottonwood
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