In 2019, some science writer friends and I took a trip to Whidbey Island, just north of Seattle. I spent the drive there bargaining with my chronic illness, calculating how much I’d be able to do, and how much I’d have to miss. My need to survive grated against my need to actually live, as it does every day. Then the car approached the sign for Deception Pass, and I knew there would have to be a poem.
That poem took the form of a haibun, a Japanese form blending descriptive prose and haiku. It’s a wonderful, vivid, nuanced form, ideal for travelogues and nature writing. It’s also my second-favorite poetic form, edged out narrowly by the haiku itself.
If you want to learn more about haibun, this piece by Aimee Nezhukumatathil is a terrific primer.
Now, the poem:
Parking Lot, Deception Pass
Hotter today than anybody expected. Sun the same. Pain perfectly on schedule, doing what it does. Now the multivariate calculus of taking part. Odds are I will never stand in this clear place again. Will get no second chance to breathe these trees or bathe in their shade. To wend upward through this forest and see the jade waves from above. My friends pointing. The shiny speckled seal bobbing in the water. Boats just below us. The horizon, so blue. But no matter the prize, there is the price to consider. Tonight, tomorrow. The next day. I will still need my legs then. Such as they are. I will still need my shoulders. My ragged heart.
Sunscreen-scented toddlers
go past, blowing kisses—I pick
gravel from my palms
*
Image by Keith Luke via Unsplash. This poem originally appeared in Moonchild Magazine.