 I didn't think of you
As I drove through the sheeting rain Eyes on the fog line Both hands on the wheel I didn't think of you When the lightning began striking fast and angry In single spikes in the not too distance Or when the hail pinged around me Bouncing off the hood Like weaponized peas I didn't think of you Because I was listening to Lovesong "Whenever I'm alone with you..." And I don't want to be that Now or then Without you I am Fun again Free again Home again Whole again Wrapped in my contented skin
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 Give me a bouquet of beets
Take me on tours of abandoned houses Sheets still on their unmade beds Now dingy with years of dust Tell me stories of these people Not their hasty retreats But of their lives before And after Leave the mystery unsolved I won't ask questions Or believe in happily ever after You and I and they Being people not protagonists I think there are bees nesting Just behind the plaster and lath Not because I can hear them buzzing Beneath the sound of your voice But I can see honey Dripping like your words Down the wall Following nearly two years in flux, a constant and unpredictable flow of loss and accrual, I am afraid to say that I have achieved stasis. Life has its ups and downs, but my sea no longer churns and tosses to extremes without warning. It has been two months since I was racked with sudden grief, five since I've had to buy smaller jeans. Emotionally and physically, there seems to be a level of dependability. My social circle, too, has coalesced into comfort. I can do and be without unreasonable questioning of my motives, which have really never changed. I sloughed targets from my back. My fear of naming stability it is not because I fear it. I fear the jinx.
I have never enjoyed unpredictability, so much of my life thus far having been dictated by it. Poverty and violence, the volatile moods of those around me, I was never permitted a routine of contentment. I could only count on that I could count on nothing. I've made things simple for myself. Difficult decisions comprised only of what to wear and how to wear it. I know what I'm eating and when. I pay a bill the same day it comes in the mail, and I never question whether I can pay it. I work out. I take baths and do yoga on Sundays. Knowing what I'm doing ahead of time eases my anxious mind. Clearing out the intangible clutter took every mote of energy I had. Physical mess and cat hair accumulated noticed but untouchable around me. Things broke, and I couldn't fix them. I've begun to remedy these things. I can hope to maintain them now, and get rid of things I've clung to for too long. Old clothes I don't ever want to fit into again, but kept because to throw them away meant to relive the last time I wore them. To hold them in my hands is to feel the feelings, to smell the air on that day, and most of them, like I was, are heavy and sad. I should have waited until I could open the windows, feel warm breeze, and smell fresh green outside, but the moment came and I had to take it. Garbage bags filled and waiting for me to take them to Goodwill in the hopes they'll have happier times ahead because I know I do.  Today I strike
Tired of being struck For being born a woman In a world molded by resentful men I remove my presence from society Withdraw my kindnesses And my cruelties Throw out my cog in the economic engine Because resented and small Though I may be I matter As much as any man If not more If you take away my body Level me to atoms The sum of my parts And his Are identical The loss of me perhaps greater For what I can do Where he can't I do the same work Multiplied And more Empathy blended with analysis Softness twisting steel Cutting through his false bravado A hot knife to his narcissistic throat Envied for my skill Hated just the same Because to be a girl Is to incur scorn from infancy Today I show what a world without me is like I know I will be missed For all of the things I do For all of the things I don't I take with me my sugar and spice My seventy seven cents Enjoy your bland, broke day  You gifted me sculptures in January
In exchange for stories I told you You said they were diamonds That I should wear thick gloves To protect my hands from sharp edges I believed you and I took them home I left them outside So I could watch them glint in the sun Rainbows thrown on the snow It's March, and we are thawing The edges of hard things softening Slowly dripping These gifts you gave Are showing their truths Disappearing evanescent Your lies watering the crocuses Bulbs forming blades emerging from the dirt Did you know the waste of your words? Or did you believe Gems torn from snow Would last our lives? You gave me sculptures Gratitude for stories Telling your own all the while But only mine were wrought from fact |
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