Cristina M. R. Norcross is the author of 8 poetry collections and the founding editor of Blue Heron Review. Her latest book is Beauty in the Broken Places (Kelsay Books, 2019). Her forthcoming title, The Sound of a Collective Pulse, will be released Fall 2021 (Kelsay Books). Cristina’s work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. She has led art/poetry projects, workshops, and open mic readings. Co-founder of Random Acts of Poetry & Art Day. www.cristinanorcross.com
The Salt That Remains
It lasts longer than braided leather.
It endures beyond the lifespan
of the oldest oak—
the way our broken, human selves connect
and live on in one another.
From one moment to the next,
we pass the baton of memory.
We seek the seed.
We go back to the beginning.
We hold sacred each and every word,
like pearls in the palm,
like notes on the piano,
floating and finding a home
in the hope chest of the heart.
Long after the wood on the house
becomes weathered
and the driveway needs repaving,
I will remember the way you
sanded a single plank after cutting it down
to size, just so the deck would be sturdy.
Long after the pretzels are gone
from the bag,
and the salt blows away in the wind,
I will remember the way your laughter
became high-pitched
in between telling colorful jokes—
punctuated by salty bites.
Long after the netting has frayed
and the white lines need to be repainted,
again and again,
I will remember you teaching my
insecure, 13-year-old self
how to throw a basketball
before gym class the next day.
Long after my oldest is off at college,
and the Baldwin piano goes silent,
I will remember hearing your bold chords
from the old living room in New Jersey.
Long after wood becomes dust,
long after stone becomes rubble,
my memories of you remain
There Is More Than One Vase
I pour myself into this vase of hope,
a liquid caramel smooth,
let myself feel roundness,
aching joints.
I take up space,
filling my lungs,
the expansiveness providing a lightheaded joy
that only acceptance brings.
Instead of shrinking to fit
an imagined ideal,
I see beauty in every imperfect inch,
every wrinkle, like rivers on a map,
every part of me that feels tired
or elated.
Maybe this vase wasn’t meant for forever.
Maybe for the next unknown decade,
there will be a new vase waiting for me.
I will take up residence
in my true self,
the self made of fuchsia-colored glass
and aqua drips on terra cotta.
I will take off my shoes,
dig naked toes deep into the earth,
root myself to every connected,
underground pathway,
knowing that I come from
both stardust and equator.
Once my vase is emptied,
I will expand and fill the sky,
a million little lights and sighs.
