A prose poem about anticipation
Landing poetry in literary journals is such a long-tail endeavor. We might write a poem while an experience is salient, edit it for two years, scrap half of it, then bring it back to life when the inspiring event returns to us in a surprising way. Other times, we write with lightning-bolt flow and precision — and nail a poem’s completeness in a few days, riding on the fuel of whim and adrenaline.
As my husband and I awaited the arrival of our eldest son in early 2020, we learned of a virus that touched down in San Francisco. We were to stay home. It was during those early pandemic days that my husband and I began learning baby sign language in anticipation of our first child. This prose poem came about from those in-between moments of preparation and unknowing.
Thank you dearly to Club Plum Literary Journal and editor Thea Swanson for believing in this poem and publishing it in the latest edition of the journal alongside the work of so many talented writers. I was delighted to see a section of the journal dedicated to the prose poem, my favorite kind of poem thanks to its narrative swiftness and concentrated, container-like qualities.
Baby Sign Language
We learn to twist hands, palm papering palm, to signal cheese. Motion cow udder squeezed for milk. Look at us catching on with greater ease than expected. Then again, it’s baby sign language. Even a baby, all thick weight, small animal sound can do it. We wait for him, secure bureau to wall, cook, clean. Imagine which parts of ourselves he will love or loathe, already aware that we are designed to be outgrown. To be waved goodbye to in a language he’s learned on his own. To decipher motion / into sound / into meaning through string and can from a distance.