the end is near
and it can’t come fast enough
but i can still see
the year in its entirety
laid out like a lemonade stand
everything for sale
just a quarter
as the neighbors march by
and i make no money
i wait here for the moment
when it will all be resolved
when the new year
will be resolved, resolved, resolved
as if i need a solution
again, again, again.
perhaps when the ball drops
i will know what it will be.
I’m still here
though only a shadow
of who you think you know.
i’ve shined my light
a bit too bright
so i think i’ll step offstage.
it’s comfortable here
behind these velvet curtains
i’m not questioned, not uncertain.
but i see you trying to peek,
wondering how i learned to be meek.
what i learned instead? how to be me.
thanks for the quick
and painful reminder
of why i never ask you for anything.
i’ll just tuck it under my sleeve
with all the others
that are crammed somewhere
in my layers of clothing
and try to use your reminder
(and its inability to keep me warm)
as a reminder
of how much more
i need to
reach out to them,
strip them free
of useless, painful notes
and wrap them in
the warmth of love
that your reminder
has tried to take from my heart.
Are we all (as my mother says)
self-absorbed Americans
bragging about our travels,
our milestones, our children,
our every little stupid success
in an age when technology
brings us together
and tears us apart?
What is the purpose
of these tools I use to write
these words, of
sending a message out
to potentially thousands,
but really only a few,
readers of my news?
And while I’m asking,
when will this bring,
instead of frustration
and anxiety, a sense
of belonging, of relief,
as I have begged for it to?
with these words
that you think harmless
you have set the tone
for weeks of mediocrity.
thank you, however,
for letting me know
with advance notice
what not to expect from you.
it is her first invite
(i wish it was her last)
and we sit in awkward silence
exchanging knowing looks
we’re surrounded by excess fat
skimmed off meat
once set aside just for the rich that has
oozed into our barely-middle class neighborhood
in gluttonous globs it surrounds
even the youngest rosy cheeks,
tripping and slipping their every step
as they unwrap, unwrap, unravel.
by coming here today, we are guilty,
and though our portion size is smaller,
it sits at the edge of the heaped-to-ceiling plate,
torn to bits in minutes by a ferocious four-year-old.
we take our leftovers in six baggies home,
but they are not for the dog. they are for us,
our girls, to chew on all evening, to try and
fill the growling hole in our gut-wrenched stomachs.
you may think i have wool
that blinds me from your version
of reality. but i pulled that back
ten years ago with my degree,
so don’t think you can
blindfold me again, as you do them,
the bleating sheep who wander
in their field of frustrated naivete.
i will pull it back, this wicking wool
that hides your response in
its porous, scratchy fibers. and i
will see the truth for what it is:
without the wool, you have no cover
for your reckless requirements, just as i
have no reason to cover my knowledge
with the cries of your freshly sheared sheep.
With what is left
We will take a bite
Of this bitter cake
You will pretend it’s sweet
And I will say the truth
(the brutal truth) as always
It will coat your palette
Leave crumbs on your tongue
That keep you from talking.
When we kiss, its mix of flavors
Will linger between your mouth and mine
(but you won’t wholly share it)
As pungent as a blackberry
Squeezing its midsummer juices
Into the sugary cobbler,
With what is left
We will take a bite
And I too will taste what you call sweet.
if you could see my day
for an actual day
(never just ten minutes)
ribbons of confusion
would dance across your eyes
(your feet might dance too)
you would see how it moves
from smooth and easy
(perfection at its best)
to a conglomerate of
chaotic preteen desire
mixed with teacherly sarcasm
you would see them
for who they really are
(see me for who I really am)
and you would know
you would actually know
when what I say is right.
but
i will accept your
harried commentary
(we are all harried)
if you can accept
a compliment that
everyone knows
everyone, everyone knows
(the one thing they hate to know)
is the truth.
they are amazing
amazing amazing
and some day
(if you could see my day,
my actual day)
you, too, will know this.
the music has ended
(crickets are singing now)
and there are no cicadas here
their tiny legs call out to us
in the deep of night and the
light shining on my belly?
it is like that night under the moon
white sand encircling our toes
where i walked to the water alone
you remember. how anger and
longing threw us apart, how i
imagined a trip there alone, with them.
in a perfect circle, the moon
led me along the beach, wind
whispering the truth to me
we didn’t have electricity
a bathroom or a camper,
nothing but haste and desire
i think of this now only because
of the songs you have chosen
now ended, given in to insects
i will carry them (the music of
our lives) to sleep along with my moon.
i would be lost without it.
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