i have shoved
many a thank-you card
into the recycle bin,
skimming over the
cliches and turning
them into trash.
but this one,
this one i will keep.
it is not every day
that such a compliment
can fill every empty space
in my shadows of doubt.
it is only in your shadow,
of course, that the words
are even possible.
but they will stay with me,
forever inscribed in black ink
on my memory as i ask you back:
“What can’t you do?”
here they are,
a pink epiphany
of what we could have been
as you stand curiously
reading my poems.
how funny that you see
and don’t see me
in the same moment.
i mark their papers,
her papers,
in green felt pen.
she will thank me later
with her dry wit,
her handing over of lessons,
her listening to my ideas.
you give me the check
(less than last year)
and wobble your hips,
your smile plastered on lips.
i nod,
my own lips (for once) sealed.
because everything,
the papers,
the poems on the counter,
the music you and i both love
playing quietly on the computer,
you in your room,
i in theirs,
everything is in its place,
and there are no words
that can describe my gratitude
as you pass through the door.
you are like wasps
hiding in crevices
along the back patio,
swooping in to hover
around the barbecued flesh
that is meant for our mouths.
though we swat at your wings,
we know the stingers
are positioned, aimed,
ready for the bite
that will sacrifice your lives
in your haste for consumption.
in our hands we hold
the greasy meat
that could sustain us all.
if only you could feel
outside of your minuscule mouths
how tasty our coexistence could be.
i’ll be exhausted
until the day squeezes out
more hours to soothe me.
is anything on
ever worth watching for more
than i can swallow?
her hands on mine aren’t
what i thought would make my weekend,
but snow will turn you.
speaking of blown snow,
what comes out of my drunk mouth
chills everyone here.
smiles wiped weariness
away from my doldrum day
with childhood relived.
we are girls becoming women
and women reliving girlhood.
all it takes
when times get rough
is a dodging-traffic drive
a sled down the mountain
endless screaming and dancing
a squished spider’s funeral
meals for twenty-eight
movies all night
and
the elixir of life
breathing wintry air on our skin,
popping out our souls
on the goosebumped flesh.
we are girls
girls
girls
becoming women.
it is true what i say:
i have no idea who you are
or why he married you
or why it is that
you put your hands on her
whose sting
carried over
into the shadows of my childhood.
i know i wouldn’t be here
spitting out these vicious words
if it weren’t for
your egg, his seed.
and i am thankful for that.
but your countenance?
your picture in my memory?
it is nothing more than
a vague recollection,
a fuzzy image,
rough around the edges,
someone who couldn’t remember my name
nor cared to ever learn it.
when you go,
tears will be shed,
but not mine, nor my mother’s.
we all know this is true.
you have lived your life,
given purpose to what we want:
to be better mothers,
to stretch our love
into those shadowy places
where your hands couldn’t reach.
am i really what you say?
do i hold the key you desire
to unlock unending questions?
i wish i could be the master of your domain,
the keeper of keys that would undo
every confusion you have inside you.
but as i trudge through these questions myself,
i find myself unable to unlock my own desires,
unable to open the door that leads to dreams.
what they’ll remember
is this fire that
shuts out the frigid winter
with a crackle and zip,
a whip to the wind;
this shuffling of places
on the couch,
bottoms in laps,
blankets bundled in
heaps of warmth;
this mother with arms
wrapping love around them
as they switch places
and fight for their turn;
this father playing monster
from the floor,
his whiskery face
lit up amongst the flames;
this quiet game that
lets all the talks out
and erupts in unsuppressible
jubilant giggles.
what they’ll remember
is nothing else from
this day,
this night,
this part of their lives,
nothing but
love and warmth and happiness.
this is how it would be
you, me, him, them
being all grown up
while the kids
entertain themselves.
this is how it would be
if everything became
what we believed it would
back in the day
when dreams
were still imaginable.
this is how it would be
you, me, him, them
laughing into the night
eating delectable food
remembering our past,
planning for our future.
but it’s not,
and we all know
it never will be.
it will be just you and me
like always
talking about
you, me, him, them
and trying to figure out
where our dreams went awry.
perhaps i wasn’t born for this.
is it etched in my skin,
a tattoo of failure that follows
me wherever my words take me?
they pull me down,
anvils on the dock,
seagulls pecking at my skin,
offering the freedom i can’t have.
i wish my words could be the wings
that could carry me away
from the place where i’m inadequate.
where i could be real, in my own skin.
instead, they’re thrown back at me,
hateful darts into my skin.
if only i could pluck them out
and send them where my heart belongs.
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