These three poems by Charlotte Chambers showcase the danger, work, and joy of being a woman…
by: Charlotte Chambers
I Won’t Write That Poem
after Tess Gallagher
because I’m in the hospital. No matter, I didn’t die,
I’m now a survivor. I’ll always
have to look over my shoulder. I pull my bruised knees into this gown,
squeeze them against my chest, force myself to breathe,
at their monotone urging. The exam
is over. [I won’t write that poem. I’ll have to go back
to being a woman. But for now*]—
there’s an ache, a deep, terrifying weight,
knowing somewhere out there
there’s a little girl who will become
a survivor too, no matter what I do.
*Gallagher, Tess, “I Stop Writing the Poem,” from the collection “Moon Crossing Bridge”. Graywolf Press, 1992.
Last Chance Before Winter
At the end of the fall season
let’s watch the bumblebee gorge
on whatever she can still find
during this liminal space and time
her chunky behind moving slow, her wings
thrumming, nearly tripping, to the next maybe-flower,
pollinating for us just once more, just
once more; until at last,
she feels she's earned her rest
The Art of Not Knowing
after Mary Oliver
[Who made the world?*]
And do I even care for the answer?
I do not ask as the disinterested agnostic,
nor as the sneering nihilist.
I ask with the bursting delight of a child
waking up in a warm bed, belly full,
in soft pajamas, his mother’s arms already open.
I ask with the keening wail of a new mother
birthing her first live infant, screaming
and writhing, all flesh and her blood.
I ask with the wizened pleasure of the widower
watching another season fall, finding new joys
in the midst of old sorrows while gazing
into the gentle, inky eyes of his aging Labrador.
I do not know who or what created this slow-rotating place,
but I know when I read a book next to my son
while he is also reading a book,
I am so grateful to be alive I could burst.
When I walk outside under the colorful crunch
of fallen leaves in November’s windy mornings,
I could kiss the ground I walk on in pleasure and thanks.
I may never know who made the world.
But I’m content to be on this mysterious globe,
one where there exists Mary Oliver poems
about grasshoppers eating sugar.
Where there are toddler hand-dimples to kiss.
Where there are sunsets every single day.
And I may never do the fullest justice
to this enrapturing existence, but I will revel
in all the beauties and the sacrifices, the troubles
and the uplifting songs of good people and of birds.
We may never know who made the world; [but I must ask, what will you do with this one wild and precious life?*]
*Oliver, Mary, “The Summer Day,” from the collection “House of Light”. Beacon Press, 1990.
Charlotte Chambers is a mom, lawyer, writer, and poet living in the Great Lakes region of the U.S. Her work has received support from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop Summer Session and Aspen Summer Words. She’s at work on her first novel and a collection of short stories. Her fiction has been featured in streetcake magazine. You can find more at charlottechamberswriter.com.
