Janis Joplin hair
might as well accept it’s mine
Happy Halloween
drive to edge of earth
that’s how far money stretches
there’s never enough
space, bedrooms, hardwood
three people and all their shit
spread suburban sloth
walkability
on a scale of one to ten?
tractor crossing sign
there is no number
to measure my distaste here
size shouldn’t matter
Americans Dream
big, better phallic boasting
in the shape of homes
American Dream:
be Janis Joplin–different
don’t let it kill you
Eritrean lunch
post-war teacher offering
how blessed they make me
youngest’s six sound bites
mad, glad, hungry, scared… favorite?
Mama’s “Für Elise”
tears backstage, waiting
for a song i can’t quite play
that’s her favorite sound?
middle school yelling
another homework battle
oldest sets standards
caught in the middle
daughter two rattles school story
steals bed time cuddles
how spicy, this meal
carried across continents
homemade, just like us
lunch hesitation
one year from Africa, lost
in linguistic haze
night in confession
one year from Spain, llevame
atrás, where heart rests
lost in translation
his understanding, my words
we compromise fear
it rests behind tongues
from mother countries, our own
till we can spit truth
let us excavate
set our syllables free, give
wings to our words
just one mile walk home
to car-shop drop-off frenzy
begin evening stress
science fair project
won’t keep quiet on my mind
leaves alleviate
no avocados?
two wheels, backpacked ride to store
guacamole dreams
oldest cycles home
begins three-shower cycle
all by six-forty
spicy tacos rest
on spicy dream-home dispute
taste still in my mouth
all ’cause he worked late
foreshadowing our future:
crap hours, low pay
sacrifice my peace
for shut-in civility?
i’d rather be poor
rich are days with him
those hours in his absence?
a chronic longing
even the girls cry
as they will with no ‘good nights’
tears don’t buy us time
the two-income trap
snagging our life with more debt
all for image, greed
just one mile walk back
where refugee students wait,
offer perspective
over basketball
we come clean with our spent day
he out shoots me; wins
meandering drives:
his through streets, mine through planning;
family meets career
girls sing their way home
in Spain, street dinners would start
here? hollow, dark paths
i’m trapped here for now
because i love kids too much
equal, theirs and mine
over drinks divulged
the story of single life
that he saved me from
penniless in months
i’ll press my lips against his
and let love beat all
better than harsh words
or baseball abandonment
why i married him
we will survive this
as hard as the year in Spain
that i so long for
It’s time to say goodbye. I tried editing. Removing posts. I started with the word drink as my post searcher.
Twenty-eight posts. (I might mention that I have 1,058 posts, the rest of which do not contain this word, but would it matter?)
During my search, I read about the beauty of my girls on a glorious Sunday. Of parties I’d had a great time at. Of weekend joy and love. Of coworkers having a moment of happiness after work.
And, gasp, about that awful thing that almost everyone I know does after work, but I’m not allowed to do since I’m a teacher.
This is one of the most frightening novels I’ve ever read. It bothered me so much when I read it, but even more now. I feel I share this room with Winston:
For some reason the telescreen in the living-room was in an unusual position. Instead of being placed, as was normal, in the end wall, where it could command the whole room, it was in the longer wall, opposite the window. To one side of it there was a shallow alcove in which Winston was now sitting, and which, when the flats were built, had probably been intended to hold bookshelves. By sitting in the alcove, and keeping well back, Winston was able to remain outside the range of the telescreen, so far as sight went. He could be heard, of course, but so long as he stayed in his present position he could not be seen. It was partly the unusual geography of the room that had suggested to him the thing that he was now about to do. (1.1.12)
I sit here now in my living room in Cartagena, Spain. I have spent the greater part of two weeks sharpening my résumé, rewriting my cover letter, and completing online applications so that I can bring my family home.
They are counting on me. Trusting me. Just as they did a year ago when I told them we were coming here.
I cannot let this writing, soul-fed, heartbreaking, ever-too-honest writing, keep me from providing for my family.
And so, just as Winston faced his biggest fear of rats, took his sip of ever-bitter gin and ended the novel with, “I love Big Brother,” I am going to have to concede.
Big Brother wins. I am taking down my blog. And with it, so many pieces of my heart that it will never beat quite the same again.
i know you can’t see
what i do on this month’s first
green beauty my blood
he remembers us
five months later we’re still here
just now we can speak
“que guapa” all day
they love how i look like them
Fascist fashion, Spain
students abandoned
danger lurks behind lawsuits
never fear in Spain
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