Learning to Control the Switch
Growing older is like setting
the crystal chandelier on dim.
The electricity is still flowing;
it’s just not sparking and flashing
into prismatic light.
Growing older is like setting
the crystal chandelier on dim.
The electricity is still flowing;
it’s just not sparking and flashing
into prismatic light.
The greatest honor I ever had
was for a little girl to call me Dad.
Years have settled at a glance
Now I have another chance
to love a child, good or bad
A little boy calls me Grandad.
Bright rainbow stripes, sharkbite hem, criss-cross
spaghetti straps—a brand new sundress
challenges her 7-year-old self.
She makes her way to the vanity area, a place of
certain assistance. Confident barefeet carry her,
but the left foot and toes jam the stationary door.
She dances around. I attempt to comfort.
It isn’t enough.
“I hate that damn door,” youthful honesty interjects.
Taken aback at frustration’s brazen color, I force
laughter into an airtight cage.
Unapologetic, striking hues, sharp bite at the edges.
This brand new thing!
The sundress too.
The stars are bright;
Sole purpose of our transaction.
Come with provenance documentation.
Pontoon forests line shorelines.
Rivers are sky to drown in.
The map of yourself hangs in trees.
Gather each piece in a basket,
bowl them up mountains
to double and rain down.
Secret out the sound
of everything you are in love with.
I carved this island for you,
with the soft knife of satisfaction.
The mental gymnastics
of survival, the ability
to translate fuck you
while smiling.
We talk about guidelines
and judgement. Unkempt
words lie closer to the real
appearance of the world.
However, I am adverse
to a realistic perspective.
While the wind streams
caution flags I’ll put
words in jars like bugs
to see if they’ll fight.
When my older son was
still a little guy, my Saturday
Morning Sidekick, we were stopped
at a light next to Triangle Park
on a hot August day with
the windows rolled down. He
was caught up in the wonder
of the fountains and I was
casually observing some
unwashed dudes on the corner
just a few feet away. He broke our
comfortable silence by asking me:
“Dad, what do winos eat?”.
In great detail I explained to him
the concept of panhandling, the
merits of dumpster diving and how
one takes advantage of the
Salvation Army soup du jour.
I was quick to point out that their
first priority was procuring cheap
alcohol. “Oh,” he said with a thoughtful
look. “I thought they just ate gwass”.
My mother
is not sweet.
She is not
Instagram-worthy
or Snapchat-savvy.
She is not
the “my sweet mother”
status updates.
She is not rainbows
and bunnies,
or sunshine,
the early-morning dew
on a freshly-mown lawn,
or anything cute.
My mother is power.
She is the lightning
streaking across the night sky
when there are no clouds.
She is the forest fire
blazing across
the California horizon
that we are striving
to control.
My mother is the ocean,
never still–
always churning,
reaching,
for something
far away.
In her depths
are monsters,
the things that God
tucked quietly away
in the abyss
when he created
the World.
When you get back
to the surface,
you will see
her majesty
in the blue Caribbean
and misty Atlantic
in the North.
Don’t think about
what lies below
for you won’t be able
to find it
without professional help.
My mother is not beautiful.
She is not
a gentle caress
or a soft whisper.
She is not the runway model
whose face is painted so heavily
that she doesn’t eve recognize herself.
She is not a flower crown
or a floral sundress;
she is not
a Sunday afternoon.
She is a Friday night
when the club music
is loud enough
to drown out your thoughts
and your heartbeat
matches the rhythm
and you are dancing
like a tribal
Queen.
She is the
running mascara
and smudged lipstick.
She is fierce–
volatile–
wild and feral
and she will never be
merely
beautiful
or
sweet.
