We left the reception earlier than anyone,
overstimulated.
Needing respite.
I sat her down in the suite’s shower
and slowly worked every bobbypin
free from her hair.
I dressed her in silk
and lay her on the sumptuous bed.
Our plans for the future softened
to mumbles and then good nights
and we fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Over in the corner,
the clock was slowly ticking forward.
An After Poem by Lyndsay Rush, “She’s a Bit Much”.
They say “You’re too emotional.” Is it like a crack in the glass / and not
the shimmer kind / or the stained ones? Like softness is a weakness /
not the soil that grows things? As in, crying when I’m happy / or sad
from bad news? Or do you mean crying when I’m angry / when I’m
proud / or when I’ve held it in too long? Feeling everything— like a
thunderstorm with skin / joy so loud it startles people / grief that swells
in public spaces? Do my emotions learn to carry tissues in my purse
and apologies on my tongue? They’ve said: “You’re too intense” / “You
need to chill” / “Don’t take it so personally”, as if I could flip the switch—
I would. But maybe the world would be kinder. If more people took
things personally / if more hearts broke open instead of shutting down.
So yes, I’m too emotional. Too aware. Too deep. Too tender.
And I’d rather feel a bit too much
than nothing at all.
Liver spots and snaking veins tumble like a waterfall
over the ridges of her fingers, curling, pressing
worn ivory into song.
She reminds me of a Gargoyle
perched at Chartres, except they are not stone,
those gnarled, those fluid hands; they are bone
and a little flesh, a little water, they are
a magical touch.
“Where does your music come from?” I asked,
thinking, “What sliver of joy has escaped
your soul’s dark discord, to dance—
oh! how lightly!—over those yellowed keys?”
Her pale eyes paused a moment, then slipped past
my gaze and took up again her watch
at that gate she guarded so fiercely.
“The fingers,” she whispered
“the fingers”—
I found a pictues of my granddaughter
when she had moved out.
I was moving out as well.
The picture reminded me of something
she told me the first time she came to vistit me
at the lake house.
She was intrigued by my paintings.
It was late in my life when I moved past
an art teacher who told me I would never become–
an artist, for I could not draw a straight line.
I discovered Modigliani’s works and I was liberated.
He painted nudes.
He did not paint realistic faces, but more
liknesses of African masks,
when he had his first show in Paris,
the police came,
closed his program–
the reason they gave–
he painted pubic hair.
His work told me–
painting nudes–
does not require straight lines.
As for my granddaughter–
the picture of her was–
of her naked, she told me she like being naked.
I have yet to paint that picture of her–
I vow today–
to myself
that I am almost ready
to prove that art teacher, critic–
wrong.
I will have to say goodbye to
Walking and petting Sadie
Digging holes for bulbs
Laying back on the tree bench
Looking up through lacy sumac leaves
Reading all day
The peace & quiet of a childless house;
Trying to lose weight;
Hot yoga
Cooking meals
The hum of my sewing machine
Verbal interactions
Driving a car
Good, full body hugs
Endless weeding
The smell of mesquite in the heat,
The eye-aching azure of desert skies
Red rock formations, swirled and worn by wind
The crash of ocean waves
The grit of sitting with toes in the sand
On the other hand,
When I die
My spirit will be on the other side,
Floating free,
Reaching through the veil to pat a hand, to squeeze a shoulder
To whisper “you are loved”
The sun shone bright and the air was crisp
savoring textures
while i imagine flavors
based on memories
