too sick to see them
i cuddled with her all day
and now she’s gone too
where has my hope gone?
all these dark thoughts have brought death
please lord make it stop.
motherhood
Flushing
self-preservation
often looks introverted;
whatever it takes
i need my mountains
to save me from self pity
that swallows me up
and yet, there is hope:
a Girl Scout troop, a book club…
new horizons wait
Getaway. Get. Away.
as we leave, she tells us goodbye till Thanksgiving,
and as always i can’t tell if it’s a guilt trip or a plea.
soon there will be no Thanksgivings.
it will be just us, moved across continents and back,
moved across town and back,
only to remain while they go.
and i pile it on my weekend,
probably our last getaway without grandparents in town,
so perfectly shaped by a Colorado sky,
so tainted by the loss in every flip
as social media stings me again.
before i walk down the steps,
i remind her of Mythili’s birthday,
our dinner reservations before Thanksgiving.
but it’s another night of tears for me knowing that they’re leaving,
they’re really leaving,
and soon all the birthdays and holidays will be just us,
just us,
and i feel the vacancy already,
the gaps once filled by friends
who’ve left us one by one,
and the greatest gap of all
lying in wait,
a storm fit to burst,
a cat poised to pounce,
a weekend ready to be ruined.
and i stopped drinking this year
and lost eight pounds
and didn’t write a single mean post
about my sister, mother, or anyone,
and it’s been ten months,
so why why why
am i surrounded by sadness?
i drive home and can’t dry the tears long enough to read with my youngest,
have only enough in me to enforce showers and teeth brushing
and folding one load of laundry,
and i want so badly to be more than the world only to him,
and i think how fiercely i latched onto him at age nineteen, knowing
even then,
even then that no one would love me that much the whole world over,
and to this day, even with that love in every step of my soul,
rejection. still. hurts.
and this is how our getaway ends:
with the waterfall that never stops.
and the road that never ends.
Hallowed Be Thy Sweets
sweet costumes of joy
decorate each Hallows Eve
as they grow and glow
a time to pretend
that the world’s magical
and belongs to kids
even cats partake
in the Snickers birthright love
that sweetens this life
Technically a Winner
Girl Scout turnaround
after a friend-connect run:
silver linings shine
computer genius
who should be making big bucks
for knowing the most
(at least i won him
to save me from tech nightmares
that plague my career)
Saturday wins week
(dipped in sorrow and regret)
proving that hope wins
Here We Go Again
our first troop outing
fall colors, shimmering lake:
friendships arrive soon
Unhappy Hour
It is a long and teary hug at happy hour
Between friends who share life’s moments–
The cold and the hot, the dark and the light–
And you can see it all in their bright faces
When they pull apart from each other.
So here i am in the dark corner, watching,
The outside of the table jabbing my ribs,
My drink taken away before i’d finished,
My mouth dry and with no one to talk to
And feeling quite like a girl at a middle school dance.
And after everything that i have built up
In the past twenty years–my marriage,
My career, my traveling, my three young girls–
I haven’t built up a friendship that would
Ever offer me such a hug.
The loneliness clings to the edges of my days
As my girls begin to find their place in the world,
Spending all afternoon up the street, online,
Arranging one social event or read fest after another,
Needing me less and less.
And that is why this happy hour stings my soul
As clusters share their weekend party plans,
Their impending wedding reception,
Their last escapade at the dancing dive bar…
None of which have or will include me.
And on year four in this place where my students’ love
Fills my days with hope for a better future,
I still have a longing, an inkling of loss
That trails behind me, wishing i could be someone else,
Someone worthy enough to be a friend.
The Last Conference
at conferences she swings her legs
back and forth, swish… kick
and murmurs her replies,
her set-to-be bragging portfolio of pride
melted into a subtle acceptance
of just good enough
and with all eight eyes on her
she hears the same words
she’s heard for six years:
Talk more.
(when all the world is a whirlwind of noise
and she has the quiet demeanor of one who always listens, always knows)
and the rims of her eyes redden
after hearing the judgey truth too many times, and before a word escapes
her last-year-in-elementary lips,
they’re telling her not to cry.
they beg us then for questions, concerns,
wanting to fill in the ten minute gap that hangs like a carcass between us,
but my words are swallowed too,
behind my own quiet tears,
my own red-rimmed eyes,
and all i can hear is Scout’s voice
proclaiming that school is a lesson in Group Dynamics,
and my girl, my baby, doesn’t fit into that mold.
instead we fill the hallway with sing-song voices
to banter with her older sister,
one year ahead and one million years mouthier,
and my tears melt and her eyes soften and we move on.
we step into the cold autumn night and she clings to each of our hands, unwilling to pull away,
her last-year-of-elementary heart still as soft as six years back,
still my little girl trying to find her place in this whirlwind world.
Saturday Night Fever
on Saturdays we cut out grass
and bend bits of metal
and win medals in Tae Kwon Do
and watch weird episodes of a modern drama
while the oldest babysits
and oh how our life has changed
from changing diapers to ours changing diapers
and we go to bed hours after
the joy of slipping off clothes
to slide into fleece pajamas
with kittens in our laps
and just love love love
that we. can. relax.
The Terror of Being Female
i can’t believe our world this week–
surrounded by the same chauvinistic bullshit
my liberal baby-boomer parents raised me up against.
and it’s 2016 and i have three daughters and a man, a husband,
a born-and-bred Southern Baptist-raised Tennesseean, whose thoughts couldn’t enter the realm of filth so flippantly tossed
into the national spectrum
and we have a First Lady
who should be our Queen
whose words get twisted on my newsfeed within twenty-four hours
by. A. White. Man.
and i want to grab the world by its ears and shake some sense into it and put him in a swimming pool at age thirteen and have a hand slide up into his swimsuit.
and put him on a bicycle at age fourteen and on the middle of a spring day have a creeper follow him home and chase him into an alley and expose himself to him.
and i want to put him in the college library at age sixteen and have a stalker creep up behind him trying to reach up his shorts when he’s just searching for a poem by William Blake.
And I want him to go fuck himself and his white male privilege that I have never seen in my home–the home of my birth or my marriage–even in all its whiteness
And I want him to feel that terror of being female. Because every woman I know has had icy blood running through her veins in those moments of harassment and assault that have plagued us for all of time.
But he won’t. Trump won’t apologize and he would argue till the day runs dark, and all i can do is pray to a god i don’t believe in that my three daughters don’t face the same fate. That they will find a home as safe as mine with a man as good as my father or husband and a world better than the one we have set before them now.
Because it’s all i can do. Because i moved away in the pool and told my father about the flasher and left that library.
Because i’m writing this now and somewhere in the world eyes are reading it and taking one moment to hear that terror slip out of my veins and transform into the truth that makes me Silent. No. More.
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