What devastating,
sucking
I have unpacked this memory and
strapped it across my chest hundreds of times
Over the years to keep me from goin under.
Although it was summer, there was a
Slight nip to the air, the sun had clocked out
Moon arriving to work the night shift
Side by side, fingers laced together, we began
Our trek across the empty golf course
Pizza in tow, crickets thundering in our ears
Our destination, a putting green, spread out
Across the edge of a cliff like a picnic blanket
Majestic Ohio river gently creeping below
Lights along the river twinkling like fireflies
Dancing in a jar, a lone boat becomes a snail
Traveling the long river line in slow motion
The stillness in the air wraps around us
There is no need to talk, we already
Know this is where we are supposed to be.
We eat, we kiss, we watch, we breathe.
Trekking back across the rolling hills
Toward the 4 door powder blue sedan
A lone bat swooshes between us and
Loops up and over the silhouette of the trees.
It’s a shame that you don’t know how many
Times this memory has saved me from
Drowning in a pool of life’s hardships.
Perhaps I will gather the courage to tell you.
Maybe I just did.
Our corner is busy and dangerous,
crashing, stalling, tires bursting, pausing for directions,
frequent flurries of activity, glass, metal, yelling.
I walked down the driveway to get the mail and
noticed the car where there is no parking, but
made no eye contact, not my business.
The driver was on his phone,
a young black man.
He stopped his conversation and got out of his car.
He told me that he was sorry, that he was working on it,
that sometimes when he drives his car too long it overheats.
I nodded and smiled as he spoke.
“You’re fine. Do you need me to call anyone?”
“No, I have called someone.”
He apologized again. I thought to myself how overly polite he was.
As I walked up the driveway to the house again, I felt a snowball to the gut.
He thought I’d seen him through the curtains and was getting the mail
as a ruse to see if he looked dangerous.
He was afraid. In broad daylight. On a busy corner.
I was a potential “Karen”.
His mother had given him “the talk.”
I went, teary-eyed, to the freezer for a peace offering, as if
blue twin pops could somehow say, “You are safe here in my eyes,”
but whoever he’d called had already picked him up.
Breath chugs like a choo-choo
Heart thumps like a racehorse
Consciousness grows in the dark
(Quiet is relative with a snoring husband nigh)
I orient to my surroundings with raised hackles
and talk myself down from being up in arms
in tongues
Deep
breaths
What was that about
What was that floozy thinking
making advances toward my husband
Deep
breaths
Battle mode retreats
Heart attack and harlot attack averted
but the brain bulldozes with abandon
No going back to sleep now
“Coffee puts hair on your chest”
my grandma used to say
I place a mug in the brewer
The phantom floozy best be drinking coffee too
if she knows what’s good for her
I don’t share
Ever
We were the original
latch-key kids, confined
to the house after school,
sustained on Mallomars,
Ritz and Velveeta,
Howdy Doody and the Mickey Mouse Club.
Not allowed to ride bikes
to skate in the street
to meet up with friends.
In our hunger for adventure
we claimed a New World,
christened it Spooky Driveway.
Our secret forest of dense weeds, junk trees
and mysterious sounds
faded furniture and broken bottles
at the dead end, a dark and thorny thicket.
Daily, on the walk to 4th grade
we would detour into the driveway
frighten ourselves
imagining animals or intruders
hoot and shriek and spook
each other as best we could
run out breathing hard
into our safe post-war
neighborhood of neat row houses.
By 5th grade we recognized
our claim as an overgrown,
undeveloped lot.
By 6th, our innocent taste
for adventure was cut short
by disturbing lessons on growing up female
that conjured
a kidnapper or rapist
behind every tree
and in every dark place.
We never went back.
i miss biting my nails,
but now i know how gross it is.
i miss that click of completion between my teeth.
i miss wearing my black lipstick,
but there’s no point with the face mask.
i miss feeling strong and intimidating.
i miss hugging people
even though i am NOT a hugger.
i miss feeling another human’s touch.
i miss going out
even though i am a big-time home-body introvert.
i just miss the option of adventure.
i miss my chest hurting
and not worrying if this is the beginning of how it’s going to end for me.
i miss breathing your air
and sharing that breeze of life between us.
Do you remember?
When we left our doors unlocked
For our friends to drift in like a breeze
Cool, sweet air flowing through our houses
As invisible as it was clean?
When our minds and hearts, now exhausted and barricaded
Were left unguarded but not endangered
By the possibility of a foreign perspective?
Now they exist mostly in echo chambers
To insulate and filter
Much like a mask over the face
But what of our eyes, still exposed?
Blinded by the rush of it all
Blinded by the harsh interior light of the refrigerator
As we rummage for midnight snacks
Carefully picking out the untouched berries
Amidst the splotches of mold
Lest we get sick
Abraded fingers tangled
what lovely bomblets
pass between us—
hammocked together,
wind chimes stir
teeth, nails, touch
wonderful notched hollow
of the offered throat:
memory & motion.
I’ve done my fair share
Of listening to John Prine in the car
I’ve fought for Blaze Foley
To be considered one of the greats
Ramblin’ Jack Elliott covers “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right,”
And it makes me want to hear the real deal
My dark rooms are full of sun gleams
Coming through the window
From the cracks in the blinds
Musty stories and cassette tape blues
The first time I heard Odetta,
My head exploded
Chills went through my entire body
And I felt Shaken
And happy
Bolts and washers used to surround the dirt floors of the garage
As I looked and looked for tiny scraps of the unbuilt
To put art on
Old transistor radios and CB’s followed the walls
And a welder screamed violence in the corner
Rusty metal poles supporting tables
That hold tools and boxes of junk
What can I bring back?
there has been nothing to match
turning those horror VHS
over in my hands feeling
the etchings of that foil art
wondering where that woman
on the front cover came from
and how to find this place
or the feeling of sitting
in the bedroom with
movie posters crooked
on the walls, and the toy
sets sticking out from
under the bed
while staring at
at those clear cases
stacked
of movies and games
a week’s worth
crammed into two nights
the weekends became
a fever dream of sleepless nights
that devoured the first
part of the weekend
because there was never
any
joy
found in a Monday
