Meeting at two
reports are due
and rent is too
Yessir
No sir
Yessir
Glasses are on
Papers and mouse—
click click click click
keyboard typing
clack clack clack clack
See nothing ahead.
Sun outside.
Through windows.
It’s still there
I know that.
Just forgot.
Sun setting
workday done.
I could have died today
slipped on the stairs,
choked on my own ambition,
looked both ways and still got hit.
But at the end of the day,
I guess I’m allowed another one.
Some clerk in the sky stamped my form:
“Try again tomorrow.”
Funny, how we dodge the reaper
like it’s a game of tag
and still forget who’s “it”.
I could have died today,
from a papercut, a bee’s sting,
or an airborne thing
But here I am,
writing a poem instead of a eulogy,
still late to everything except
the end.
Senior year of high school, my grandmother
took us holiday shopping
just like she always did — her seasonal joy
sourced by a day spent scouting the Westshore
Mall, urging my mother, sister, and me to try
on any and every piece of clothing
that happened to catch our eye. She bought
us far too many things but was never
satisfied until we walked out stooped
by the weight of all our big brown bags,
such an embarrassment
of riches. We’d load everything into the trunk
of her car, then she’d trundle it home and gift
wrap what we’d chosen and already seen,
just so we could open presents on Christmas
morning. It was silly, but a time-honored tradition.
But then something happened. She died,
much to everyone’s shock, one early-
December morning, in her sleep.
In the wake of her passing, a relative found
the packages, didn’t know what to do but place
them under the family tree. That Christmas,
we opened boxes whose contents we already knew:
They were full of grief, and we never felt less merry.
25 years ago, in selfishness and hubris,
I created life.
What was I thinking,
to inflict this monstrous world created by men
on something innocent and helpless?
I too have a complicated relationship
with motherhood,
but it took me far longer
to learn that everyone
is a morally complex monster.
I wanted children long before I selected a husband
and wanted a son long before I was pregnant,
because I feared
I could not safely raise a daughter
in this monstrous world of men.
My wounds are less deep and fatal,
but is there a surviving
woman of my age,
in this monstrous world created by men,
without trauma?
Once delivering a son I felt a nagging worry that
like Mary Shelley I might author both man and monster.
Yet now that son is fully a man
in possession of prefrontal cortex and job
and cardinal array of friends.
I assembled the parts that made the man: his father’s hands,
his grandmother’s coloring, his grandfathers’ names,
the height of my Dutch ancestors. Yet he is more than their sum.
Although I take full credit and
apologize again for the scar on his chin.
My creation has taken control of his story and I am in awe
of the firewood gathered to warm the hearths of others,
the life lessons gleaned from storied monsters,
cloaked wizards, and fiery stormriders.
Somehow, learning to be a kinder, gentler soul than me.
For Kevin who tossed the word (so, blame him, or maybe bring him a buttered scone)
I’m not French, but we do have a little bit in common
I’m a scintilla of soup (well, maybe a bowl if it’s lentil)
A twinkling of fireflies (well, maybe a whole sky of them)
A fragment of words (no, definitely a complete sentence, unless it’s poetry, then it’s a tossup)
A linger of salt on the tongue (but don’t tell my doctor)
A scatter of lilies (well, more like an armload)
A 5-letter dash of wordle (it’s an addiction thing)
A risk of wind (well, maybe just a soft breeze that gently wafts my hair and doesn’t throw dirt in my eyes)
A scoosh of blackberry wine (well, maybe the bottle, yes, make it the bottle)
A dribble of butter (unless it’s on corn, then bring on Wisconsin)
A speck, a nubbin, a token
Who the hell knows
We’re all patchwork babies
Searching for a quilt
Aching bellies grumble
and the students mumble.
How they moan and groan
as though they alone
empty stomachs know.
Their frustrations grow
with clock hands so slow
and their spirits fall low
as can be.
And I clearly see
as the bell starts to ring
the reaction it brings
and it dawns clear as day
to get out of their way.
I dreamt about you trading your skin for a painting
I dreamt about you we did the hope you’re doing well dance
I dreamt about you in my lover’s arms
I dreamt about you
it was stupid
I woke up
What is your darkness?
An echo in an empty house
or a stairwell holding
it’s breath?
What brings you light?
A candle glimmering
in a cracked window,
or a scurry of squirrels
quick with delight?
Clarity comes without asking,
the surprise of stabbing
cactus spines,
or a sunrise unfolding
over the mountain.
Do you drift between doorways,
fingering walls,
waiting for the hardwood
of the banister to ground you?
Or do you get caught
in liminal spaces
and wander barefoot
until a hand
or the low watching
shape of a coyote finds you?
This is me
reflected in the ornate mirror.
Narcissism motivated him to hang it above his desk.
Why else gaze upon himself
each time he perches before his clutter,
his face in a gold, baroque frame.
My grimy fingers stroke the silvered glass,
grotesque image, assembled identity.
Stubby, clumsy fingers – calloused, work-worn,
were these a smith’s hands? a farmer’s?
A prisoner’s sentenced to hard labor?
Hands sutured to arms of different lengths
from two separate corpses provided
by busy resurrection men.
This cranium puzzles.
What bones did he epoxy to create my face?
Why the over-hanging brow?
The weight of this head presses,
stresses my Tinker Toy spine.
My unnatural flesh, jaundiced and mended,
sprang from The Doctor’s madness.
Such hubris, a god complex
to think he could make man.
The sight of me fuels my temper;
choler troubles my carpentered chest.
Wrath seizes me
I grab the monstrous mirror
with its baroque frame
and my hideous image
and slam it upon the cellar flagstones
Now a hundred shards reflect
a deconstructed monster
compounding my disgusting self.
Hush now,
I hear The Doctor coming.
