the sun was down
& in the haze of dusk,
the sky was a sharp indigo
i commented on its beauty
in the same, nonchalant manner
in which i complemented
your beautiful light blue eyes
like the mediterranean—-& how
much i want you to drown me
in their pristine glory, & how
sad i would be if i never
get to kiss you, again
Peter Paul Rubens, 1618 8’0” X 6’10” Philadelphia Museum of Art
Only five, my eyes are fixed on the eagle –
its beak tearing guts and blood
from this naked Titan, sprawled
on rocks, chained at the wrists. Back
and forth from the bloody beak to the giant
talons gripping the poor man’s head,
fear keeps me paralyzed in place.
Compelled to revisit Prometheus
with each family pilgrimage, I wrongly
imagine that this horror will shrink in size
as I grow. But the painting is huge
and hung low, the bird enormous,
large as the man, executing his gory task
in the lower half, smack before your eyes.
Stunned I remain, year after year,
silently pleading to be unchained
from Zeus’ rage, praying for a parent,
a guard, anyone, to do what I cannot –
pry me from my spot, turn me
to the other side of the room
where the solace of angels awaits.
The daisy teapot
has been turned in such a way
to hide a long crack.
Sugar tasted best
in glistening cubes
from the matching dish.
Snatching up those treats
was a sneaky endeavor,
but I realize now
she kept it filled up
so our little hands
could get away with something.
lose a limb
take a limb
limn a leg in plastic gilt
guilt and gird
a power grid
where wealthy men
do not have
a moral left to stand on
(if you lose yourself
and someone finds you
what part was ever you?)
Top and bra off only. Gown opens to the front.
Dutiful ‘Ok’ drifts in her curt wake, cut by closing door.
Blue paper drapes shoulders, flutters, falls
to midriff, like baby bird wings in new-flight. Child-like,
I swing my legs and shiver where sterile has no smell.
Cold hardness awaits.
Radiation oncologist and two residents—or were there three?—
bring clinical attention to bear on my breasts. I strain to hear
humanity hidden in hospital speech. I puzzle aloud my litany
that runs non-stop since diagnosis: I am a pescatarian, I exercise,
but maybe not as much as I should, don’t smoke, and drink
so little that there is no place on your form for me to fill out.
No one laughs. Not even me.
One of the residents rushes to soothe naked fear:
You are more likely to die of a heart attack or get hit
by a car crossing the street than to die of breast cancer.
My quiet stare reddens his ears,
my gentle question, his face:
That’s supposed to make me feel better?
I don’t recall dressing or receiving the pink card
that will scan me without words into a membership
I do not desire, into an ending bell I don’t want to ring.
I don’t recall receiving My Girls cream for radiation burns.
Who came up with the name My Girls, anyway?
I’m not one to name my body parts in this manner.
Cancer has a way of taking pieces of you away.
Fully clothed and streetwise once more, I freeze
shy of the crosswalk. Signal light turns yellow…red…green.
People speak in passing, foghorns in swirling gray mist.
I say nothing and watch the signal light.
Turn around
your childhood
is behind you
climbing like Clematis
up the wall
Flowering orange
like the day lily done
Even the evening
does not fool me
the moon like a silver sun
glowing down on me
Bkessing mystery and recovery
This is what forgiveness
looks like
rain and shine
but always a lightness
in my solar plexis
a stripping of burdens
a lifting of lies
a glance into the connection
that vast blossom of love
But the thing I was most proud of
was that I had forgot to do the assignment
I had arrived in class empty handed
In tall white cursive on the board,
were the words
Turn in your essays today!
I knew this teacher with the beautiful penmanship
collected assignments at the beginning of class
so in the 2 mins while she welcomed us
and told us about our next project
I wrote my essay
without any reference material
no corrections, no drafts
It was the only one I saw not typed
we had been given several weeks to do it
I was most proud
that I wrote something like that
something that blew away the judges
those probably working to save this beautiful earth
we are privileged to play upon
I wrote a full page from my heart
in tiny purple letters
and I didn’t even read it
before I turned it in
I didn’t write this to brag
although I am proud of that thing
And certainly I was reminded of those 26 years ago
when my friend pointed out yesterday the beauty of that number
and how it had become her guide
and I looked up all the significances of it to send her
Wikipedia had some interesting information
and it’s really surprising how magical that number is!
And it wasn’t necessarily because this evening,
while I basked in the afterglow of the double rainbow
on the upper decks of the fire escape
giant bats flew figure eights incredibly close to my head
So speedily dispatching
the zillions of mosquitoes
that pervade my large and overgrown backyard
I bear their marks
But it was more this uncomfortable feeling
that after 26 years
I am getting pretty close to being old
and yet I still have to defend the idea
that great work doesn’t come from toiling
it comes from feeling and knowing
and trying
and not giving up on that which seems done
and not paying too much attention to others
and how well they’ve prepared and typed and bound
because every once in awhile
people can really see you
