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

Walking on Eggshells, Sleeping on Air

By Jennifer Hunt, from the archives

It’s 6 AM and I would get up if only
The mattress we bought over the phone
Had not floated up
Leaving three inches between my nose
And this ceiling

At least I think it is I who has floated
And not the roof which has sunk
Yet perhaps
The sky was falling
The sky is falling
The sky is falling
And has been off and on for some time now
Since you climbed
Into the burnt stump out back
And began growing rings

“These coils are like sleeping on air,”
Pledged the salesman over the phone
Before landing his commission.
Air is not all it's cracked up to be

If manufacturer's words mean anything
The warranty predicts
I should be down
In fifteen years

Was I four or five or seven?

By Jennifer Hunt, a poem written for my dad, from the archives

Was I four or five or seven?
Years have blurred my sense of time
Seems like yesterday Dad caught me
Running through the birch and pine
Little daughter in a sun dress
Parting smooth wind with her face
Sprinting harder, getting farther,
Leaving grass clips in her wake

Giggles spilling from inside me
Doing hopscotch over rocks
Clearing grass and reaching road dirt
Like a robber from the cops
Had good reason to be missing
And it wasn’t to escape
But to find the glee of knowing
That a dad would win the chase

Seems like yesterday he caught me
I take three steps to his one
And just now I can’t remember
When my running had begun
Or just when it will be over
But this smile squints my eyes
Because I know if I were missing
He’d be . . .
. . .on his way to find

Omnipotence

by Jen Hunt, from the archives

How can I tell
Which is harder
To heal or to forgive
When I can't do either?
Praise to Jesus
Doer of both!

I Am Not

By Jen Hunt, from the archives

I am not
You are not
He, she, it is not
We are not
You (pl) are not
They are not
The I Am Who I Am

On Flocking Together

By Jennifer Hunt, from the archives

Consider the flock
Of pigeons on this sidewalk.
What's their bond?
Is it their plumage? Or only
A queer attraction to the same,
Overstuffed trash bin.
As graceful as a junior high dance
As friendly as a country club
Necks ticking off my odd points
Eyes scolding me up and down,
I’m molted on the spot.
Their tattle all coo-coo's and poo-poo's
A quibbling over yesterday's lunch
I'd rather be plucked than join in.
But when I hear your strain
From across Pigeon Alley,
I forget all about Audubon's canon.
You could be a goldfinch
I, a blue-footed booby
Still, I would flock to you
Faster than airwaves
Because on the inside—
Where no birdwatcher can go—
On the inside
Our feathers match perfectly.