M-I-C-K-E-Y and a prompt to play with

100 Poems is still in its first week, but I’ve already been swept off my feet by the loveliness of this community. Thank you for sharing your poems! Thank you for reading, for offering support to me and to one another, and for being willing to play (nicely!) with random strangers on the Internet. Let’s do it all again!

A Bit of Backstory

My poem for today was prompted by a rather strange scrap of wisdom from the Universe. Are you all familiar with Elizabeth Gilbert’s Letters From Love? Every now and then, I write one of these letters—I ask Love or Source or the Universe what it wants me to know that day, then I get still and jot down whatever comes. Usually, words flow in affectionate torrents, but yesterday, all I got was this: “Enjoy making the pancakes.” I didn’t have a lot of time and needed to hurry and get breakfast finished for my boys, so the brevity of this advice was appreciated, but the message itself seemed odd.

I decided to give it a try, though. I’d already made pancake batter the night before, so instead of rushing about multi-tasking, I stood in front of the griddle, watching bubbles form in the batter as it cooked. I felt oddly delighted by these bubbles. Why had I never given them a moment’s thought before? That small, seemingly insignificant experience gave rise to the poem I’m about to share with you.

I neglected to photograph my own pancakes, so thanks to Mae Mu for this one!

A Prompt to Play With

If you would like a prompt to help you toward your next poem (this is always completely optional), I hope you’ll consider this one: “Enjoy the [insert some mundane task that you’ve done many times before and need to do again today].” Enjoy it by giving your full attention to it. What have you never noticed about this task before? What sights, smells, sounds, textures, or tastes make it up? How does your body feel as it moves through space? What memories or hopes or fears or feelings bubble to the surface as you give this task your deep attention?

M-I-C-K-E-Y

I am making Mickey Mouse pancakes
for my boy, almost 13.
Two chocolate chips for eyes,
one more for a nose.
“Mickey!” he will whoop
when he bounds like a puppy
into the room,
banging into something, always
unsure where his body ends.

Not for the first time, he’ll ask me please
just this one time
to cut the pancakes for him,
and I’ll want to say yes
but will refuse on principle. 
Air bubbles appear on Mickey’s chin,
sprouting slowly, then all at once,
an ever-expanding beard. 

When my boy was small, just 3 or 4,
he stepped into the bathroom,
just as his dad stepped out of the shower.
His little boy eyes rounded to pancakes.
“Why does Dada’s penis have a beard?”
he wanted to know, and I watched
something sprouting in his mind,
when we told him that some day, 
he would be bearded, too.  

Air bubbles cover the whole
of Mickey’s face now,
like pock marks
or pimples.
He is ready
to be flipped.
He is ready
for the other side,
and I am not. 

Thank you for reading. Now let’s go play in the comments thread! Come share a poem of your own, or enjoy what others have to offer and let them know what resonates with you.