A Pale Scrawl
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I didn't think of you

3/26/2017

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Picture
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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People not protagonists

3/20/2017

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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
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Level sought

3/13/2017

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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.


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Today I strike

3/8/2017

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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


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Gems torn from snow

3/6/2017

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Picture
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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