I squeeze my middle, like fresh
dough that waits to be kneaded
into form. I can take the shape
of any womanly hourglass, if
I want, if I know how to mold me
just right. The squeeze, this routine
pretend game where curves are lines
is now ritual. This sacred sacrifice
to cut off circulation, if I have to,
comes in a cloud of hasty,
whispered hopes. Just one more
button, one more inch.
I wonder if this is all part
of what being a woman means
or if I am something different,
something squeezed in between.
The mirrors don’t have answers,
just more questions and voices
that spill out dark smoke
in the back of my mind. If I can
make this one button slide in,
I wonder if it will be like sliding
a key into a lock. Perhaps I will
push open a door into someplace
I never thought I’d fit into.
I wish to learn how to speak in such a way
that perhaps the words would go straight into my father’s brain
One clean trip
to make him understand
letters on paper
wouldn’t make a frown disappear
it wouldn’t build confidence
make my worries float into the air
it wouldn’t be a magic eraser
that could blur every memory that hurts
It’s not going to build me friends
or be what I’m worth
It will not cut off my tongue
and restrict my words
A letter is a letter
It’s not life or death
Even though
you may think
it is.
for Greg
Two rides had taken him to Bakersfield
then Tracy, a railroad town a howl
and a long red sun away
past tangerine groves and long
melon fields to an LA bound bus
where I sat already going the wrong direction.
“Miss would you like to use my raincoat for a pillow?”
No, I replied, but, come sit.
The bus groaned towards golden town.
He was my kind of mad who smelled
my wounds. We both looked greedily
out on the whole mad promised land arriving
at the shining ragged sticky dawn of Hollywood.
“the fantastic end of America”
We were sweating a fit of sickness
and hit the first hotel we could. He said we needed
whiskey and hurried to find a pint. We took turns on slugs.
He stood behind me at the mirror
and we danced in the bathroom that way
and towards the bed. I let my dress slide off in reverence.
“I knew you was a nice college boy.”
~ as suggested by Jack Kerouac in the
50th Anniversary Edition of
On the Road
He does it
over and over
but they say to
let. him. be.
No one sees
his crime
but when they see
her pain
they. laugh.
“Boys will be boys.”
Boys are boys
and boys can
rape
if. they. want.
Of course,
they want
and they do
because no one
stops them
stop. can. you. stop.
please. stop.
can. you.
no.
no. no.
please.
“If that’s all he did,
don’t ruin his life.”
“But mom”
That’s what she told me
She might as well say:
He matters,
you. don’t.
Out on the open floor
visible but for a moment
when lamplight washed the room.
It ran,
as its kind tends to do,
it ran to a place I could not follow.
Time and disorganization
became its cloaks of invisibility
buying extra life
while I was forced to sit back,
consider the state of my home
that might have brought the roach in.
When you are so close to giving up,
it becomes hard to care about
every little thing needing attention.
Junk and loose papers and fast food sacks
building because who’s going to see?
Why put in the extra trouble?
In need of focus, this roach,
this psychological villain
kept crawling on my brain.
Indeed the whole day
I couldn’t break away from
the lingering sight of its big, dark, scurrying body.
And to know it was still in there!
That it may not be alone!
That it could be anywhere when I return home!
But in that despairing, a gift
discovery of something new.
I had a thing to hate.
When time allowed, I was going to dig
through so much time of indifference
cleaning out what should have already been gone.
I was going in deeper and deeper
knowing any moment I could rip off
a paper blanket and the battle would change.
To get there was to ignore exhaustion.
No more excuses because I’m tired
emotionally, physically, and I just want comfort.
How can one expect to win
when they never choose to fight
as if some miracle will make it better?
Garbage, loose change, forgotten books,
stuff that had fallen between wall and bed
I hadn’t bothered to retrieve
until now when my enemy
had made a shelter of all the mess
I wanted to ignore.
Deeper, deeper, the roach still hid,
still creeped around in my head.
Where else could it hide?
Bed moved, last papers lifted,
a look around the headboard
revealed infested corner.
Lying motionless on its back
I couldn’t say how died,
just happy that I’d found it.
A quick disposal,
a celebratory beer,
a night of rest earned.
And then a dream hit me hard
stirring up my apathy.
I could feel the dark of night sinking in,
decay of mind, periodic weakness.
Turned on the lamp and found
vacuumed carpet.
The mess around me gone,
and with it, oppression,
realization.
The roach was something in me
that I killed through determination,
no lasting anxiety trap.
Though the air around me still isn’t perfect
and may not be for a while
in this memory is a beginning.
I did something for myself,
vanquished an enemy,
released my first fraction of freedom.
Flames twice the height of trees
are awesome measures of destruction.
We drove so close the hair singed on our arms.
I didn’t know–we couldn’t know–the danger
they, and we, were in. My father fought wildfires
but we were going to the beach. Another time.
His anger flared enough to make him monstrous.
We learned to compensate, to take on guilt
and negativity in small licks, like poison
meant to make you stronger. We loved him
for the embers, never disappearing, that meant
he loved us best. A fire can rejuvenate the land.
