O LORD, my LORD, my Living Water

by Jen Hunt, based on Psalm 63, from the archives

O LORD, my LORD, my Living Water
Quench my charred and blistered soul
Whiten sheets of blackened parchment
Blasted by sin's fiery blow

Sated lips once sang your glory
From Jerusalem's holy hill
Lips, now parched by Judah's desert,
Praise from streams no longer filled

Enemies have sought to kill me
Do not hear their evil plans
I rely on you to stay me
Cradle me with your right hand

Look upon my fevered torment,
Tilt your never-emptied bowl
That a drop of holy ferment
Might rain down to wet my soul

Chocolate-Coated Somethings

By Jennifer Hunt, from the archives

Yesterday I received a box
Of twenty-four chocolate-coated
Somethings.
I am one third of the way
Through the somethings.
I have eaten three completely,
Given five away,
Squished the bottoms in
On eight others
Only to put them back in the box,
And forced my husband
To eat the one I nibbled
Only to discover it was
Coconut.
There are newly-poked parts of me
I want to put back
In that chocolate box.
I’ve always preferred
The kind with lids
That give away the insides.
You can pick the ones you like
And leave the rest.
Who has the lid
To me?

Lament for the Sparrow

Lord, how often I've found comfort
in knowing I'm worth more
than many sparrows

This afternoon, at three
One such flew
into the glass of
Our bathroom window
A thud
Then silence
Was it the neighbor being funny
Or a terrorist's grenade?
Neither-
Just one, still bird
Lying sideways
Neck bent
On the slope of the roof

Leave it there, says Graham
I can get it later

God, you say I am worth many sparrows
But if this is a sample
I'm not so sure right now
What to think
About worth or us

The sparrow never had to be removed
Pelting rain or bird of prey
Got there first

If I royally screw up
Lying dead on some roof
What am I worth to you?
What does my worth to you matter?

Lamenting the sparrow
I mourn myself
I mourn the glass ceiling
That separates my soul
From you
Keeps me from
Feeling your tears
As they touch
The hidden glass
That shields my heart

I am that sparrow
On that roof
Having hit the glass wall
With a Thud
The wall that lies between
Us

As I lie here as dead
How I long to feel
Your pelting, healing tears
Upon my head
To find
My soul lifted
Off this roof
On the wings
Of the dreadful
Bird of Pray

Hello, Alden, My Old Friend

by Jen Hunt, from the archives
The following song, written to the tune of “Sound of Silence,” sheds light on Jen’s unique baby boot camp journey:

Hello, Alden, my old friend
I’ve come to feed you once again
Thanks to those bottles in the ICU
You never latched on like I hoped you’d do
And the freebies that were stashed in the diaper bag I toted back read:
“We taste as good as mom’s milk”

That sweltering night we brought you home
I had to feed you on my own
My eyes were red, their lids were baggy
My nursing bra was loose and sagging
Though I gave you every ounce that my chest could store,
you cried for more.
Please tell me how to feed a boy like Alden!

Then in my nightmares there I saw
ten thousand ladies, maybe more
Women holding their babies
Mothers nursing with no problem
Breastfeeders whose milk supply rivaled that of a Jersey cow’s
(The Lord knows how to feed a boy like Alden).

And so your mommy pumped and prayed
to the Medela Lactina maid
As La Leche called out its warnings:
“Formula was found to be deforming
in studies done on lab’ratory rats
who swallowed vats
You may as well be serving poison.”

But when my milk supply had peaked
And you cried out for more to eat
That put your Mommy in an awful spot
“Let him starve, or cause his tum to rot?”
So I did the thing any loving Mom would do. . .
Combined the two!
And that’s how to feed a boy like Alden.

Alden Christopher Hunt

For my dear son, Alden, from the archives

My eight year old
Wise Protector
Avocational circuit connector
Early riser
Calvin advisor
Plays like a Lion
Works like a lamb
Traveled to London
With Grandpa and Gram
Saturday morning pancake cook
Eternally found nose-in-book
Boxcar fanatic
Civi III addict
Good head on his shoulders
Boom’rang billfold-er*
All-around pleasure
Gift beyond measure

Love, Mom

*Refers to when he lost his wallet on the Isle of Jersey and it was found two days later at the police station

The Poet’s Excuse

by Jen Hunt, from the archives

This poem is for all the poems I will never write
Because I wear dresses without pockets

This poem is for all the poems I will never write
Because I still can’t remember my husband’s social security number
After eleven years of being listed as his dependent on the road side-assistance card

This poem is for all the poems I will never write
Because the AAA operator had trouble
Finding my membership information in the database

This poem is for all the poems I will never write
Because it takes the gestational length of a common fruit fly
For phone reps in Texas to find Rhinelander Wisconsin on a map

This poem is for all the poems I will never write
Because I have found I actually prefer being put on hold to just about anything else

This poem is for all the poems I will never write
Because locksmiths don’t believe poets deserve anything in a hurry

This poem is for all the poems I will never write
Because they began in my head when I should have been minding my car keys