Kindergarten Graduation
Memorial Day 2022, after Uvalde
a flag crouches, quiet
small, in shadow
behind the singing bodies of our babies
my daughter stands
body to body on chorus risers
the pink puff sleeves of her
favorite dress reach out
and rest on the shoulders
of someone else’s children
New Physics
I used to ride the swings,
summers at the county fair.
My mother on the bench
by the cotton candy stand
could not watch my body,
a limb from her body,
whirl through the air—
a universe in a bucket seat, held
by rust-flaked chains
and a whip of loose nylon.
Back behind our home, my daughter
floats from the pin oak—
her rainbow saucer swing
a perfect circle
beneath the ess of her
arms and lengths of hair
loosing from yesterday’s plaits.
I no longer have the heart for spinning things.
That nylon strap,
that weathered branch
broke with the water.
She blurs before my eyes,
asks, heady, through a glorying grin,
if the sky has started turning,
and the earth is standing still.
Vic Nogay
Vic Nogay is a writer from Ohio. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best Microfiction. She is the author of the micro poetry chapbook under fire under water (tiny wren 2022) and is the Micro Editor of Identity Theory. Find her online @vicnogaywrites or haunting rural roadsides where the wildflowers grow.
Why Martheaus loved it:
A swoop from Taylor and two poems?! Martheaus, you sly devil, you. Yes, I was a greedy one with these, but I needed to have them both in my corner of BRAWL.
One of the reasons I asked Taylor if I could swoop this one is because I am a Texan. I was just finishing up a year at SFA, and I remember the swell of anger and pain that was reaching across our state and the country. There's a simplicity and gentleness to this poem. It's short because the silence is enough to fill every breath in between. It's a simple moment, because--in truth--maybe that's all the heart can take in this brief moment. It could've been the speaker's daughter, there are parents who don't get to see this moment for their children now. There's a shadow, and this poem invites it in to allow reflection. I have much to say about why the composition of this poem is so powerful: the way line breaks alter expectations and pace (you almost have to push forward in slowness through them), the selection of details doing so much for the tone (it's not just a jacket, it's pink and the daughter's favorite), and the final stanza--it allows the picture and the witnessing to do all the lyrical work.
I got a lot of my poetry teaching from fiction writers and "New Physics" follows all the practices they shared with me. I really appreciate how closely effective the heart of the poem is at tying things together: there's physical movement but also a movement through time and physical change in the new generation (forgive me and my lack of science, but I remember something about change and physics from Mrs. Galindo's class). Within this miniature setting, there is beautiful world-building. I was a particular fan of the amount of detail for the material of the swing ("a universe in a bucket seat, held / by rust-flaked chains / and a whip of loose nylon").
Interview:
Both poems have these larger conversations and themes spurred by smaller moments. Can you talk about the relationship between what inspires a poem and where it ends up going in these poems or elsewhere in your work?
I used to be quite preoccupied with both my past and my future—wrestling with past mistakes and bracing for future ones. It all came from fear of not being in control. As I attempt to be more present, I try to give my worries and fears space to exist within me rather than fight to control them. This has been surprisingly palliative for my anxiety, and it has freed up some emotional energy so that I can stay open to the “smaller moments”. When these moments have conversations with my fears, that is where most of my poems begin.
A daughter appears in these poems. I don't want to be presumptuous, but--if you are a parent--what has your child taught you about poetry? Or maybe, what has raising them allowed you to bring into your poetry?
Motherhood is a mirror. To be able to look oneself in the eye, flawed and hurt and unobstructed, is a terrible blessing for a poet.
A poetry professor told me to write toward my "obsessions." These are the thoughts that are constantly on the mind--almost haunting you. I'm wondering how the tragedy in Uvalde, Texas followed you for "Kindergarten Graduation." How was in on your mind and what caused you to address it for this poem?
This is one of those poems that wrote itself. I attended my oldest daughter’s kindergarten graduation the day after the Uvalde school shooting. Within that moment, I was feeling so much, so acutely. I was collapsing inside a waking nightmare, playing out a recurring fear, yet mercifully standing on the outside. There was something so sick about it—both my gratitude and my inability to be truly grateful, my wearing the weight of this tragedy because it hit so close to home. I couldn’t help how I felt, so in those moments especially, I was conscious not to amplify my voice unnecessarily. The images in the room spoke so loudly, I felt all I could do was write them down.