Tiffany Babb is a poet, essayist, and cultural critic. Her cultural criticism has been published in PanelxPanel Magazine, The AV Club, Paste Magazine, and The Comics Journal, and her poetry has been published in Third Wednesday Magazine, Rust + Moth, and Cardiff Review. Her first book of poetry A list of things I've lost (Dec 2021) is available from Vegetarian Alcoholic Press . You can follow her on twitter @explodingarrow and sign up for her monthly newsletter at tiffanybabb.com/puttingittogether.
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“I remember that it takes work to remember." Fragmented portraits and metropolitan pastorals arc along a pendulum of solitude, illustrating alternate desires of preservation and renewal. Babb creates connections through elemental communion with objects, nature, family, and fading keepsakes, transforming mundanity and trauma into oneness with the present.
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-list-of-things-ive-lost-tiffany-babb/1140618284?ean=9781952055331
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TWENTY-THREE
I can see my grandmother at my age
pull her hands from family and home,
to flee from country to country to
country again, so that I might see
the Notre Dame, hear chatter
from the flower market
opening nearby.
In my bag, a pass for the Metro,
details for my flight home,
and a set of house keys,
jangling.
__________
TRANQUILITY
At the dining table of a freezing kitchen
I sit alongside candles of pearled wax,
an empty napkin holder, last night’s wine glass.
Here, the sun exists only in weak beams
slipping through the curtain of clouds.
Leftover rain drips from tree leaves, and
hydrangeas dash blue and purple through green.
__________
RETURN
The house is empty;
only the kitchen light is on.
Taped to the staircase is a note
from my grandmother on a scrap
torn from a wall calendar.
Characters march in neat little rows,
scratched out in skipping ballpoint ink.
I recognize only my name and the symbol for night.
I pass them to a friend who tells me
the scrawl is too messy to decipher.
Then to my mother next, who translates
as only a child can, for their parent,
with patience and familiarity.
The church meeting will run late.
There is food in the fridge.
Do not wait up to let me in.
__________
RETURN
The house is empty;
only the kitchen light is on.
Taped to the staircase is a note
from my grandmother on a scrap
torn from a wall calendar.
Characters march in neat little rows,
scratched out in skipping ballpoint ink.
I recognize only my name and the symbol for night.
I pass them to a friend who tells me
the scrawl is too messy to decipher.
Then to my mother next, who translates
as only a child can, for their parent,
with patience and familiarity.
The church meeting will run late.
There is food in the fridge.
Do not wait up to let me in.
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