About the Poems
by Steffi Drewes
Maybe the epic starts with a dozen eggs or the day I learned to count. Or years later the teacher’s instructions to a classroom of girls to care for the fragile white littles as if they had sprung from us like toothy vowels. Of course I wanted to be the best basket. A girl, a book, a seed, a mirror, a star. Such wide wide eyes, we wonder what is the secret to keeping her contents safe and growing smarter? Sometimes we all woke up thinking about the egg and its hard skin-self, but more often than not we dreamt about being small. Wondering, how will we show her the difference between precarious and precious and precocious? Or do we leave that learning to the forest? How did we learn shelter versus helter skelter? Do you think, ultimately, it is the burden of body and breath and knowledge that makes her shine the brightest?