Jessica Thummel

Little break between sentences.

Little break between sentences.

To the west.

To the west.

On Repeat.

Ten Inches Lighter:

Spring cleaning.

Spring cleaning.

Another perfect writing song.

I’m not going to lie: this made me cry just a little.

The kiddo in White Sands, New Mexico.

The kiddo in White Sands, New Mexico.

Colorado morning.

Colorado morning.

Giant fire at a nearby construction site.

A Poem

Language Is Useless

As an infant you screamed
and I fed you, you screamed
and I held you, rubbed your
sweaty down fluff in the cup
of my palm until your hair
was flat and oily.

As a toddler you screamed
and I gripped your hands
while our faces danced,
my eyes for yours, yours
away, away to the wall,
to the floor, to the ceiling, never meeting,

never that infinite regress
a mother needs, that bounce
of light that says
you are mine and I
am yours. No.
It was a stranger

kind of love. A host
kind of love. You with your
screaming. Me with my
running, anything for some quiet,
some static. Screaming
became our language

without nuance. It meant
I’m hungry, or wet,
or I’m sad, or I want
I want. Your sound for happy
and lonely and I’m here.
You screamed because you’re here.

And at the grocery,
they stared.
At the doctor,
they stared.
At the playground,
they stared.

But I held you close
because you were mine
and I was yours,
and the screaming
and the running
were enough to name love.

(For D, from Jessica)

Birthday portraits.

Snow in the foothills.

Snow in the foothills.

How did I go thirty years without hearing this song?