Dandelion
Every year about this time
I thumb through a Rolodex
of names—my names, all
the possible ones, everything
I’ve heard whispered or shouted
my way, in love or in panic,
in anger. There are nicknames,
like the one a kid gave me
in sixth grade: Birdlegs,
and really, yet today I’m shaped
like a ball of cookie dough
balanced on a pair of sticks.
It fits and always has, like so
few names do. I’m not sure
about Karen—I don’t think
I’ve ever asked to speak
to a manager, one hand
glued to a hip, severe
hair cut frosted in stripes.
I’m gentler than that—
I forgive and make do.
I was Poopsy as a child,
but only to my mom,
and I liked it, still do, still
would come if you called it.
My students call me K‑Dawg,
which is silly, but the lesson
is serious enough: Call people
what they ask to be called—
a way to avoid trouble
from a newly minted PhD
or someone trying to sell you
a pedagogy of chairs
in a circle, a bubble pierced
in a jiffy by a courtesy title.
I have christened myself
with secret names, ones
that match my spirit
or my hopes for it,
and sometimes I’ve asked
to be called them—
Plenty or Harmony or Bliss.
What I’d like is a name
from creation, an outdoor thing,
but not pretentious—a thing
I’ve seen in my walks, here.
I swear I’ve spotted
a mountain lion, even
if no one believes it—Puma,
Panther, Painter, they’re all
so unlikely, and my name
shouldn’t make you skeptical
at the outset, nor should it be
ridiculous, like a big man
you might call “Tiny,”
for laughs. But I’ve been
a lot of places, and what
I’ve seen has made a mark.
By rights I can be Geyser
or Glacier or Corpse Flower,
if being a witness grants
me a claim. But I’m looking
closer to home, with its
Honeysuckle, Wild Strawberry,
its Porchlight Moths and Feral
Cats. And I’m starting to settle
on Dandelion. Hear me out.
My son, now a teen,
will still pick them for me
if he sees one larger
than the others, like
a saucer in a toy tea set,
and come to think of it,
I remember Poopsy’s mom,
how delighted she was
to be presented with fistfuls
that she’d put in a glass
in the kitchen. Some things
you should know about
the dandelion: It is sustenance
for bees, and for my father,
who grew up on its greens,
always edible but best,
he said, in the spring.
It is old medicine, good
for the liver, antioxidant,
anti-inflammatory, good
for cholesterol, blood sugar—
but that’s not the stuff
of poetry. Its beauty is—
how one spring day it just
materializes, with sisters,
like how the sun sees itself
in a pond, dappled. Look,
I’m not everyone’s thing,
like the dandelion, but I
believe in what’s bright
and pretty and good,
and so that’s the name
I choose: Dandelion.
–
Every Day Is Mother’s Day
Right now in a picturesque
village—seaside, houses painted
in bright but faded yellow, the trees
fruit-bearers, but it’s spring
and they’re in flower—you can see
a woman walking down cobbles,
swinging her canvas tote, face
tipped a bit to morning sun, and she
doesn’t suspect her quaintness
or charm—for her, the day
is quite ordinary, though perfect,
secretly, by at least a dozen metrics,
and she even has a mom and plans
to call her the first chance she gets.
–
Sunday I Forgot I Missed You
Sometimes grief
is nothing much. It’s the knock
you pretend not to hear
as you keep puttering, the kettle
you’d just as soon ignore,
for as long as you can, until you can’t—
its keening is hot and scrapes
your ears. I’ve tried
to lose the loss of you but it seems
to have dug in, like a tumor
or a tick. I haven’t thought of you
in days, and there are days
not thinking of you is the only
thing I can think about.
–
Augury, 2020
This morning, the first
of a new year, new decade,
I fell down the stairs—
the whole flight, feet first,
then sideways, with a rump-
pump-pump at the bottom.
I sat there a minute, touched
all my parts, flexed my arms
and legs, and it turns out
I’m fine, not a scratch
or bump, so take that,
year: Bring me your worst,
and I will give it back to you,
unscraped, astounded.
~
Karen Craigo is the Poet Laureate of the State of Missouri, as well as the author of two full-length poetry collections: Passing Through Humansville (Sundress, 2018) and No More Milk (Sundress, 2016). Professionally, she is the editor and general manager of a small Missouri weekly newspaper, The Marshfield Mail. She lives with her husband, two sons, and two cats in Springfield, Missouri.