About a month ago, our Women Rowing North writing group was given the topic “the seeds of hope” for our essay writing assignment. We would have two weeks to prepare. During the first week, I could think of nothing. I drafted an introduction, but I could not see how it was going to move me through 1200 coherent words. As I often do, I went to the poets for inspiration. I read one of my favorites, Emily Dickinson's “‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers.” I read Amanda Gorman’s “The Hill We Climb.”  But instead of being buoyed to sally forth, I found myself agreeing in the dark places and disagreeing with the light. 

I drafted a few more paragraphs, yet nothing propelled me in the direction of a hopeful and optimistic piece. By the second week, it was clear I still had nothing. Was I hopeless? My everyday life is full of things I love, and each week there are things I look forward to. But hope frames the future. No, at this time, I honestly don’t believe I know where there are any seeds for me to plant. 

During the second week, I stumbled upon a chance viewing of the 1974 Gene Wilder movie, “Rhinoceros” while scrolling through the channel guide. The movie is  based on Eugène Ionesco’s 1959 play about the pre-WWII rise of fascism. As I watched, all I could think was, “This is our life now.” And the final nail in the essay’s coffin was rereading the first chapter of The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood. 

Mercifully, I had a conflict with the writing class on the day we were supposed to read our essays. Although I was sorry to miss some genuinely hope-filled essays from this group of wise women, I knew I couldn’t just abandon all of the emotions associated with the process I had taken myself through in the previous weeks. So, I salvaged some phrases from an unformed and unfinished essay, sunk deeply into literary allusion and my own feelings, and drafted the poem that follows.

Because I Could Not Write About the Seeds of Hope

I remember the moment  
when hope became 
the thing without feathers.
The thing “that perches in the soul”
was lulled into silence– 
a miner’s mute canary. 

November’s morning-after trauma.
The gravity of the office 
will triumph, they said.
I know more 
than the generals, he said. 
Day after day,
walking among rhinoceroses.
Not horns, torches.
The thing’s feathers singed.

Will there be enough warning 
to run to the border? Or will I 
sleep on a cot in a gymnasium 
next to Offred on 
feathers plucked?

A different November.
I drank champagne just after midnight,
Slivers of light the next morning.
But evil refused sleep.
Broken windows, shattered glass, 
Feathers torn.  

Still, the thing.

Battle fatigue, don’t plan 
anything beyond the slowness of a morning.
And then
what was ours was taken away;
And then
October horrors, months of unspeakable suffering.
And then, and then, and then.

I look away
from the thing without feathers. 
Do I hear them,
the little chirps, featherless and faint? 
In summer, leafy branches filter sunlight, it watches.
In fall, winds blow across the ground, it scatters.
In winter, snow and cold come, it rests.
In spring, violets push through the snow, it waits.

I hear them,
the little chirps, the soft trill. 

Still, the thing. 

We will keep our vigil, the molting thing and I.
I will say I have a seed to share, and the thing without feathers
will accept the lie.
Poor thing. 

No thing can soar to a summit on featherless wings.
Hope is a formidable hill. 
The fragile thing, flecked in callow down
can be carried.
So we will climb together.