Sarah Beddow

Dispatch

re: a Pause

There are two kinds of apple trees in / my neighborhood For years I would worry that
something / had killed the crabapple blossoms on my childhood trees But now I know
they / simply blossom later than the nursery-bought trees down the road The nursery-
bought trees bloom cotton ball white / and early On my trees a few weeks later and
after / the green leaves unfurl tight magenta buds give way to / soft pink petals and
sweet perfume This year it has / been cold and I have watched snow fall on the buds /
I have panicked at / frost warnings in late April But still every morning / the buds
draw their coats tighter against the cold / and they seem / fine The trees have pressed
/ pause I think this life in quarantine is what I’ve fantasized about / for a while now
A life of the mind I read I write I / shower while thinking deep thoughts But what is a
life of the mind without / the students to share it with It is a / pause a drawing close
of petal soft blankets a question about / how long the closed bud persists

Dispatch

re: Shadows

These students do   not   leave my room   There are no  prep periods  I have / no time
without kids talking  writing  talking  talking  talking  talk/ ing / ing / ing  My job is
to / control the room keep everyone on task / proofread this paper  / provide
followable advice on how to completely restructure that  paper  / sit   hold space  for
this student at my elbow while she types her paper and types types  types  / The sky-
light points sun at my eyes at a 45 degree / angle and I’m wearing this cowgirl hat
from my days as a cook at the Buddhist retreat center  to stop the daily headache
from bleeding into / tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow / At home I take the hat
off but still / hide my eyes   I can’t look at my kids  I can’t make eye contact with /
anyone   My husband says it’s OK I’m / always like this   after work  / I’m always like
this / I think I could fall asleep / on this hard plastic chair here  / in the sunshine of
the back yard   My kids climb the swingset and slide slide / The shadows grow long
like shadows do in late Spring  / I move my chair back and back  / to keep my body
warm in the sun / shine farther away  and farther / away  from my kids until there is
nothing left but shadows

Sarah Beddow is a poet, mother, and teacher. She has written a lot of poems and essays about her body, rape culture, and abortion. Her chapbook What’s pink & shiny/what’s dark & hard was published by Porkbelly Press, and she is the founding editor of the Pittsburgh Poetry Houses, a public art project. Find her online at impolitelines.com.