Slow Living
On the days when I am beaming at the list
of things I’ve accomplished before noon—a run,
a shower, breakfast (two sorts) for my children,
breakfast (another sort) for myself, email, dishes,
tending to cats and dogs—I wonder at the algal
bodies of three-toed sloths, how they barely
have need to move, everything within reach.
Or the garden snail—one-footed and sure-footed—
a single leaf in the rain enough of a world.
Starfish and anemones—patient and bright—
wait for sustenance to come to them.
In the span of an afternoon when I have cleaned
and telephoned and problem solved and likely
cried, a giant tortoise has grazed and napped,
basking in the sun. By the time I’ve cooked dinner
(hopefully just one sort) and helped the children
with homework, folded laundry, checked items
off lists, herds of manatees have rested, munched
on water grasses, rested some more. Undressing
at last for a well-earned six hours of (likely
interrupted) sleep, I imagine a slow loris
just waking up to sit in stillness, large eyes
reflective in the dark, biding time with its toxic bite.
As my strong and neglected heart slackens its pace—
the house gone quiet save for human and animal
snores—I wish to remember, tomorrow, the slow,
measured motion of the blue whale, a mere
two heartbeats per minute as she dives,
sleek and magnificent and open-mouthed
of things I’ve accomplished before noon—a run,
a shower, breakfast (two sorts) for my children,
breakfast (another sort) for myself, email, dishes,
tending to cats and dogs—I wonder at the algal
bodies of three-toed sloths, how they barely
have need to move, everything within reach.
Or the garden snail—one-footed and sure-footed—
a single leaf in the rain enough of a world.
Starfish and anemones—patient and bright—
wait for sustenance to come to them.
In the span of an afternoon when I have cleaned
and telephoned and problem solved and likely
cried, a giant tortoise has grazed and napped,
basking in the sun. By the time I’ve cooked dinner
(hopefully just one sort) and helped the children
with homework, folded laundry, checked items
off lists, herds of manatees have rested, munched
on water grasses, rested some more. Undressing
at last for a well-earned six hours of (likely
interrupted) sleep, I imagine a slow loris
just waking up to sit in stillness, large eyes
reflective in the dark, biding time with its toxic bite.
As my strong and neglected heart slackens its pace—
the house gone quiet save for human and animal
snores—I wish to remember, tomorrow, the slow,
measured motion of the blue whale, a mere
two heartbeats per minute as she dives,
sleek and magnificent and open-mouthed
Brittney Corrigan is the author of the poetry collections Navigation, 40 Weeks, and most recently, Breaking, a chapbook responding to events in the news over the past several years. Daughters, a series of persona poems in the voices of daughters of various characters from folklore, mythology, and popular culture, is forthcoming from Airlie Press in September, 2021. Corrigan was raised in Colorado and has lived in Portland, Oregon, for the past three decades, where she is an alumna and employee of Reed College. She is currently at work on her first short story collection and on a collection of poems about climate change and the Anthropocene age.
Art: New Beginning #57, Encaustic on Wood Panel, 2021 by Chizu Omori.
