We’re happy to bring a little change of pace to the Kveller blog today with some poetry. And not only is it poetry, but it’s poetry from a
, who, as the writer pointed out to us, are just as good at kvelling as moms. The following two poems by Ben Pincus are from a collection called Other Voices, Drowning.
It’s like the moon, she said, reflecting
three-year-old wisdom as I handed her
the first snowball of winter, so precious
she carried it with her everywhere,
trailing dirty puddles on the floor.
She is learning that things you can hold
are fleeting, possession temporary.
I can conceive of nothing more beautiful
in this moment, than the ephemeral
moon splashing through the skylight,
full across the still immaculate kitchen.
I can’t put my finger on it because it’s missing.
Yep. Cut it clean off just north of the second joint
slammed it in a door when I was maybe nine,
but what’s really missing from this poem is the baby
sucking on my shoulder fussing his first tooth
or maybe just hungry for Mom, doing the laundry
while I try to be brilliant at something other than
bouncing an infant. The delicious way his hair
smells, how do they get that way and where does it go?
Ben Pincus, poet, social worker and Jewish father, works and lives in Rockland County, New York with his wife, many children of all ages, and no pets. He received his MFA in Creative Writing from Bowling Green State University. His work has previously appeared in PresenTense, The Jewish Angle, the Journal of Jewish Studies, and Willows Wept Review.