Lisa Bellamy
Lisa Bellamy studied with Philip Schultz at The Writers Studio, where she teaches. She is the author of The Northway, a full-length collection, and Nectar, a chapbook, and has received two Pushcart Prizes and a Fugue Poetry Prize. She lives in New Jersey and the Adirondack Park, and is a development research officer for a national organization. www.lisabellamypoet.com
Everlasting Stew
Stir your heartiest stew. Stir bones you find in the meadow:
bobcat bones, for courage; moles’ for perseverance;
fox bones, for cunning. Hunger awaits; wait, is hunger here,
already—will we know famine? Stir toothwort, dandelion flowerets,
for hope, health. Tiny carrots, for cheer. Snap beans for grit.
Like North Country hermit John Rondeau, whose Everlasting Stew
bubbled round-the-clock: waste nothing. Commit to the long haul.
When drought replaces flood, can you cope, lug your bucket—
toss muddy river water into the pot? Can you stir your stew?
Toss your greed, crypto dreams; toss your anger;
wishful thinking, nostalgia, into the stew pot. Know this:
the old world has passed away. Refuse to starve: toss in sadness,
stir your stew, your heartiest stew. Sadness sticks to the bones.
How to Stop Drinking
On a whim. No, not a whim—
Drinking is your job:
the Ministry of Drinking employs you.
You have no intention to quit;
what would you do with your body,
speech, mind; your daily
activities, to and fro?
Wander walking sidewalks,
looking in store windows,
begging for spare change?
On a dare. Your boyfriend dares you
to stop drinking for two days.
No, not a dare—you suspect
manipulation. You are like a
runaway dog, wagging your tail,
refusing to be caught.
He pitches an alcohol-free
beach trip, but you won’t take the bribe.
The doctor warns you—no.
Your last appointment was five years ago,
no scrutiny for liver damage,
heart palpitations,
so-called mental health problems,
even as your whiskey craving
returns—you believed
you’d pushed it into a hole,
telling yourself like a fraudulent
asbestos abatement contractor,
you’d encapsulated the craving.
No. First Nyquil, for colds.
Then, Nyquil anytime, anywhere.
Later: beer, hard cider;
later still, finally whiskey.
You listen to pleas from family—no.
You hear, but do not listen.
To listen requires active
participation from Awareness Body,
who encourages words
to enter ears, journey
to the heart. Your hearing?
Ear-only. When someone asks,
How are you, you reply, Fine.
When they ask, But how are you,
really, you reply, Really fine.
But for the third time in a month,
you fall drunk downstairs.
You drop a Sake bottle
on your foot; break tiny bones,
refuse a doctor when
your boyfriend begs you visit.
When your boss asks,
Are you limping, you reply,
nope, bite your lip against pain.
Mornings, you wake in light,
but close your eyes, curse the sun.
Through prayer? Yes, maybe.
You go to AA meetings,
but still drink. You hear
you need a Higher Power,
a notion you find ridiculous.
You wait until your daughter
visits her father for the weekend;
shut the bedroom door,
although you’re alone. You drop
to your knees, feeling
like a jackass, but say your prayer:
Please, stop the drinking,
to Whomever, to Sky, to Sun.
You feel nothing. Nothing happens.
That night you try to sleep,
but can’t. Your dead paternal grandmother,
Mary Irene—the Mary you just
met twice; who survived farm failure,
husband’s early death, poverty;
Mary your mother hated; Mary
who flourished in flowery California—
appears. Why do you smell
roses? For your tenth birthday,
she sent you a Japanese doll:
silk kimono red for joy,
white for peace; ten black wigs,
each a new personality,
new story. Imagination is beauty.
You forgot this. Mary Irene lies
next to you, touches her glowing
finger to your forehead,
throat. Get on with it, she says. Live.
