Posts for June 6, 2022 (page 7)

Vanity hungers for me 

I was born in New Orleans
on Mardi Gras’ tail.
In 1979, i tucked the picture
of my mother’s painted belly
and cat’s eyes
into the edge of my mirror.  

She showed me once how
to lite pressed incense
in its brass burner with Fleur-de-Lis cutouts.
Sandalwood and patchouli filled my head,
under the yellow canopy of my childhood bed.   

I have stared at that picture,
her pregnant belly and painted eyes,
remembering those gray-green smoke rings
the shape of Fleur-de-Lis dreams,
drifting through me
as I unbraided my hair,
pinched color into my cheeks,
and painted my eyes.

Little girls in skimpy costumes
like some lecher’s fantasy.
They’ve been carefully coached
to be seductive for the cheers
of the audience.  The pelvic
thrust, looking over the shoulder
arms akimbo.  False eyelashes
and lipstick on an 8 year old,
and the throb of deafening music.

It goes on for hours in a hot
auditorium, a performance space
from the last century where
the plaque outside says
Helen Hayes played here.
But now sweaty fathers in shorts
and tee shirts sit on the front
steps scrolling their phones
looking for relief from this ordeal
a scene like a state fair cattle show 
where their daughters are displayed.

The poem she posts is not surreal, but what it imagines is nothing less. Nightmare stuff. Drug-induced stuff. Too much fucking stress and not enough resilience left stuff. At the bottom is a video link. Untouched, it shows what might be her, hair longish then and tied up, dark-framed glasses that make her momentarily unfamiliar. Touched, she sits in sunlight on a balcony. Cars appear and disappear below. Her robe is dark, the sunlit heights a storm cloud gray, the shadows in the folds midnight blue. In it, she looks larger than he recalls. He runs the video first with no sound to distract him from the watching of her.

Little pickling cukes, all wrinkled and covered in warts
like wicked witch noses.
Frilly dill fronds
and a teaspoonful of its oblong black seeds
to fill you with love.
One teaspoon of fenugreek,
ochre-colored and pungent,
to make that love grow and heal mistrust.
One teaspoon filled with tiny spheres of yellow and black;
mustard seeds to bring good luck.
Another teaspoon of cumin seeds
for faithfulness and fidelity.
A sprinkle of the brightest sunshine yellow turmeric
for prosperity in our lives.
6 cloves of pale, ghostly, slices of garlic,
a palm full of peppercorns,
and one single bay leaf
to protect the home we’ve built together.
I know the vinegar burns your eyes,
and clouds your head,
but I hope that it clings to every corner
and fills every crevice of this house,
and banishes every little thing that haunts us.

There is a silence here
that is not mere absence of words. 
It envelopes me as I sit by the pond. 

It lies below the wind
that hushes the trees, whispers
to nodding grasses. 

It holds the drone of bee
slap of submerging frog
brush of ripples against cattails. 

It frames the liquid melody
of birdsong that falls out
of every green hiding place. 

It pauses outside the chapel
renews itself, again,
on the chanting voices of women.

He kisses passionately

Like the sun on my skin

On the first day of summer

He fills my mind like a full moon

On a cloudy night

His laugh echoes louder than the morning birds’ song

I could go as far as saying he is my Earth, that without him

The tides would stray, the trees would wither,

And the sun would hide in the moon for comfort

But I only see him how I have painted him

I expect him to be what he is not

If I just put down the paintbrush and wake up,

I’ll see that he is just him

The tide will still rise, the trees will still breathe,

And the sun will still burn

Lurking behind,
my white paper cape catches
wind as I race
to keep up.
Words from my textbooks
flying around my head
as they spew out of your mouth.
Purple gloves glued
to my finger tips
mask taped to my nose
snug up against my glasses.

Aching to get the blood and urine on my gloves
just as you did.

dad clambers into my passenger seat
right as i’m about to leave. he wants
to survey my tail light
as i click the turn signal,
says something
about getting my tires fixed
before the big move,
those tired black flats
breathing nearly out of their husks.
i think about how love is checking,
checking in again
even when nothing is wrong.
how loving someone is
anticipating doom.
on my parents’ anniversary card
i write congrats on 26 years
and i think of what a large child
that could be, still unsure,
with tears always threatening
their brims. then i walk to the garden
to call you, and when your small
black-white voice finally blinks back,
i let out a breath large enough
for the trees to stand a little taller, i swear,
i swear it, for the yellow blooms to sigh open.
i’m just checking in, i type back.
watching me pull away, dad waits in the street,
silhouetted by my tail light,
which burns a sure red.

What a damn fool I was

To believe I could watch the same movie

Over and over,

Starring someone who

Was not you.

My heart-shaped pupils are

Far too naïve

To widen

At the looks of a stranger.

The credit scene leaves me

Hanging from a cliff,

As I credulously wait

For your arms to catch me

If dare I fall.

I land broken, flat against the concrete

And bounce right back

To start up an epilogue,

Thinking this time

The conclusion will add up

At the end.

Same protagonist,

New antagonist,

Same story line,

Same ending.

Through my sunglasses,

My pupils turn to stars,

Almost in love, but just not

Quite the same.

What a damn fool I felt,

Crawling back to restart

The series, watching

The sequel to my own epic anecdote,

Humiliate the saga as a whole.