When my daughter was born, many of the boundaries I knew disintegrated, such as self/other and indoor/outdoor. I felt moored to the earth, subject to whatever was going to happen in the world, be it economic collapse or climate disaster. I kept a journal and made daily notes that I’ve since written into a series of entries in a longer poem. I made these notes while out walking with her strapped to my chest or toddling along while I held her hand. I wrote with Japan’s Heian-era poetry journals (uta nikki) in mind. These journals were written more than a thousand years ago by women not only to record their daily lives but also to claim their agency to tell their own stories. This one is mine.
TO CARRY. transitive /tu̇ ˈkɛri/
she’s too big now for me to carry her on my shoulders. there was a last time I carried her like that. I didn’t notice. I didn’t linger. I didn’t make one more go of it. light rain on the San Rafael coast. her father carries her on his shoulders. I walk behind them crunching the leaves
NIGHT CROSSING. transitive /naɪt ˈkrɔsɪŋ/
first—tie a leaf to a string and let it catch the breeze. this is the direction of the wind. you will cross it at varying angles / you’ll also have to account for the way your body displaces the air and the water / still crossing—the easiest kind of turn // but you’ll still need to lean in or out depending on how close you are to the wind
OAKLAND. noun /ˈoʊkˌlænd/
whatever is in the air is in my lungs / whatever is in the water is in my blood / whatever is in your veins is in my heart / whatever you carry I carry•
This poem appears in Issue 35 of Alta Journal.
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Judy Halebsky is the author of three poetry collections, most recently Spring and a Thousand Years (Unabridged) (University of Arkansas Press). Fellowships from MacDowell, Millay Arts, and the Canada Council for the Arts have supported her work. She directs the creative writing MFA program at Dominican University of California.
