I cried when he told me about the ponies
how they shied from the light of day
and were worked until they fell
shaggy sides heaving in the dusty air
the mules sent in with lanterns
he said he feared the boom
but I didn’t flinch
when he told of the caving top
his hands tracing the line
coal black
etched into his ear
would I rather see the canary fall
feathers stained dark as night
quiet in its cage
or to smother beside a friend
he asked
and I couldn’t say
Five tiny bottles line the shelf on Evans Road
inside one scoots a baby crawdad in creek water
another holds a lightening bug (dead, stolen from a Mason jar)
pressed with the feeling of wet grass on bare feet
Surprisingly two others contain
a whiff of Aqua Net (prelude to mom and dad’s date night)
and the buttery salty taste of popcorn
the crunch of tires on gravel
fills the fifth full of trepidation
Heartbeat like a bellow to my brain,
I lay still, back flat,
listening to raindrops.
I wonder why we live our varied lives?
I know I will succumb to ashes to ashes
one day, like we sang when I was three,
feet on hot pavement, kids from Hawaii,
in a Mexican neighborhood, falling,
laughing, pretending to be dead.
The cage of me is camouflaged.
A life raft. A fire escape.
As if everything was simultaneously
burning and soaked.
Tools for indulgences.
I want our howling intertwined bodies.
Your holy hands … completely exposed.
I want your staring down the barrel of my shame
and still reaching – out and into me.
Only then might I reject requests for quiet,
embodied, and clean.
I am your distasteful mound of flesh.
All nerves and blood and mouth.
I am made of such beautiful and foul things.
The smooth arch of a back ravaged by nail marks and sweat.
Flushed cheeks and gritted teeth.
Clenched muscles before blissful release.
Blazing and drenched.
Tonight I sit outside
on the deck of my (granddaughter’s)
houseboat. Herrington Lake and
the descending sun make a
herringbone pattern on my eye lids.
Swallows under the bridge
pilot fighter their way to nests
brimed with fledglings. Who needs
Caspristrano? Or Glen Miller?
We have a small community here
of the more permanent houseboaters
called “The Dix”, named after the river
in which we sit. We meet every Tuesday
in one another’s vessels for what we call
“coffee & toffee.” We’re like any tourist
town, in summer our numbers swell
with Huckleberry wannabes.
My great granddaughter, Penelope,
stayed with me this weekend to stir
my writing, she thought I might give
up after “Dr. Hue”. She wants to know
my mysterious story. I say it’s only so
because she knows so little of it,
and I wonder what she’ll think if
I tell it. I don’t really think much of
“confessional poetry” or this whole
endeavor. We’ll see
The sun goes down behind me
in a collapsing sphere of red, the
lake stills itself in its Sunday night
abandonment, Penelope has gone
bowling with her Indian boyfriend,
I’m ready to take the edible she has
left me and go to bed in my watery
mattress.
Morning Glories
have taken the beds,
choking out the roses and zinnias,
growing high up the porch.
Daily flowers
produce daily seeds,
which will fall,
reseed
and overwhelm me
again, next year.
Should have known better
than to plant them
in the first place.
But, these heavenly hues
are irresistible
and it is said
the seeds will make you high.
let me tell you about joan
(I heard my name?)
she is a huge bitch
(That language is very unbecoming.)
she thinks she is always right
(I am just trying to help.)
she is very critical
(You should be capitalizing and using punctuation.)
and she is always telling me what to do
(Do not start a sentence with “and.”)
she hates my body
(I’m just saying it would be smart to lose some weight.)
joan thinks i’m stupid
(At least capitalize my name!)
she is always watching over my shoulder
(A more poetic phrase would be “breathing down my neck,” change it.)
she is always breathing down my neck
(Good. You seem smarter.)
my therapist knows about joan
(It’s a very good thing you’re in therapy, you’re a lunatic after all.)
my therapist doesn’t like joan
(I am not here to be loved, i’m here to keep you from being hated.)
i hate joan
(You should wrap this up, they’re becoming bored. You’re boring. Why are you even writing this?)
i’m gonna wrap this up
(Good.)
Giant Yawn
full body stretch
full flop
lazy slow tail swishing
curl into a ball
contented sleep
h a p p y p r i d e
for the theys and thems
for the gays
the us
the we
for me.
i am a woman loving woman
ashamed for years
haboring guilt and doubt
family members speak of disgust
“why do they have to broadcast it for everyone to see”
while television thrives off the ideals of romance – but only if it’s hetero, right?
they can’t fathom the idea of girls liking girls or boys liking boys
and don’t get me started on how anyone can “identify” as a different gender
disgusting, they say
but no one said anything about the grown man touching the little girl
not a word.
they sit and listen
eyes dart around the room
bending over backwards
bodies breaking in half
doing whatever it takes not to look that girl in the eye.
look me in the EYE
tell me again how much of a sinner i am for loving the gender that did not hurt me
that didn’t defile my adolescent body
made me feel all of the things i should feel when it comes to my sexuality
worthless
shameful
disgusting
disgusting – arousing revulsion or strong indignation
a word that comes into play over and over
a word that i’ve used to describe myself
tell me again how your God would not approve
but allowed such foul crimes be committed against me
i deserve to feel worthy
i deserve love and happiness
i deserve to stand tall
to be free
to be P R O U D
i am no longer ashamed.
you think you’re unknowable.
incomprehensible.
you think that
the universe stitched you into existence,
a body of entirely unique experiences,
destined for something great.
you deserve to be celebrated,
worshipped,
by people who could never truly
understand you.
you feel lonely in your superiority.
you think that you crave to be known.
you think that
if people could see who you are
deep down
then you would finally feel
understood.
there is a hole somewhere inside you,
a piece that doesn’t make sense to you,
an unanswered question,
the beautiful possibility of a
scapegoat
for everything you are ashamed of.
I hold the answer in the palm of my hand
knowing I can never give it to you,
knowing you will never hear me,
see me,
know me,
except as an extension of yourself.
one day you will be forced
to find it on your own.
when you do,
you will realize that you do not want
to be known.
and you will realize that I know you.
(you’re so vain
I bet you think this song is about you,
don’t you?)
I almost wish you had
punched me in the face
that night.
at least then
I’d have something to show for this.
