i still my stomach for good
uncross my legs
reach my toes out to the floor
i panic about my ass not being used for sitting
i am a cynic with a bad word under
my tongue
i lay somewhere, tucked somewhere
i say i will be better
i will stretch, branch out
poke my cheeks and force dimples
i can listen, but
i am not a child
resolve to make something new
recreate
repurpose my pain…I heard that yesterday
replenish
restart
renew
it’s Friday, so why not
commit today, tomorrow, Sunday
a refocus of sorts
allowing dreams, ideas
no matter how far out
or ridiculous
it’s a summer day
light will linger
so why not encourage
myself to shine
regroup
Gone all day in the country
a writing workshop
five come of age women carpooled
kept tryin’ to tell stories, forgetten’
the names of people
the titles of books
the names of projects
we howled
sign of the times
better get busy.
I’m trying to convince myself that there’s beauty in whatever this stage of my life is
Beauty in the mundane
In routine
In me
Even though it sometimes feels like I’m watching my life pass me by from another room
A bystander to my own experiences
Recalling my own memories as if they were legends told to me by campfire light
Finding myself stuck replaying my trauma like a skipping record
Trying to find a clue of how to heal
Trying to find the missing piece
Trying to figure out how to be content with where I am
Trying to live in the moment
Trying to believe that it’ll all work out in the end
Trying to have faith that everything happens for a reason
Trying to be
Trying to
My 2-year-old
Learned about
Rhythms and rhymes
From a dance teacher,
A drum, and the book
“Chicka Chicka Boom Boom”.
Each syllable was on beat.
Spoken and written word
Dancing, sounding, seen, heard, felt …
Integrated into their
Little bodies and minds by
An innovative teacher.
The gifts given to that
Two-year-old
Carried her through
Life. Dancing
In her body and
With her body and
In her mind and
With her mind.
Just as they still do
In memories
In my body and mind.
Summer rain falls quiet
when storm clouds part overhead
I stand beneath the broken blue sky and ask,
“When will I hear you speak again?”
To which a tiny droplet responds–
leaping from an oak leaf,
mouthing a light tap that echoes from the muddy earth.
This brief exchange becomes a conversation with which I hope to never lose touch.
You are on your way
home. Just ahead—
your exit ramp.
Traffic has stopped,
but begins
to move slowly
forward. A vehicle
appears
on your left.
It is facing
the wrong direction.
The top half
of the car is absent—
it looks
like a convertible,
though it is not.
The movement
of your own vehicle
feels like a black
and white film
of the Kennedy
assassination.
At the front
bumper
of the wrecked
vehicle,
a door opens.
Something putrid
flows through
you. Fifty yards ahead
sits one shoe—
a sneaker. You now
believe in evil.
Cut me a piece of pecan pie
and squirt some Reddi-wip on it
and I’ll tell you why I love
Thanksgiving
so much in spite
of all the family bitterness
passed around the table
along with the gravy boat.
I love Thanksgiving
so much because
I find it remarkable
that such ill-tempered
I-need-a-drink,
resentfully jealous,
morally suspect
people can contribute
incredibly delicious
secret-ingredient
dishes to a potluck
that never fails
to satisfy.
Aunty Lee, she of the five husbands,
sets a fine table though
the silver may be hot
and she gripes
that she can’t use her best linens because
over the years they’ve been
stained beyond repair
by tobacco juice
oozed from the pores of men
and sometimes women
seated round the table.
Left-over love seeps from the food
they bring to the table.
And we, voraciously empty, eat of it
until we’ve had our fill.
That’s why I eat your pecan pie.
That’s why I love Thanksgiving.
following two days’ downpour
seedlings
washed
into
puddles
willy nilly
doggy paddle the sloppy mess
giggle
sprout
wave their tiny arms
