After a hike to see the Middle Falls
At Letchworth State Park,
We pause at the playground.
My brother and I hop on the swings.
Far from being a child now,
my butt is a little too wide,
The black strap a little too snug.
But the rhythm is never forgotten,
Leaning forward and back.
The air swirls past,
The chains creak.
I jump, never bold enough
When I was young.
My brother sticks the landing.
I stumble a couple of steps.
My hands smell of metal.
I want you to love me the way
bananas love to rot on our counter.
It’s just that I always realize too late,
when that coveted shade of yellow’s
turned to spots turned to
there’s no way I’m eating that shit.
Toss ‘em and we’ll try again soon.
Toss ‘em and we’ll get it eventually.
bitchuary
i got a text
from your father
after you went away.
he wanted to know
what would go
in the obituary.
he spelled it
b-i-t-c-h
uary.
your sister quipped
“that sounds like january
for bitches.”
long ago
your father branded me
bitch, many different kinds!
he was cold
but abbie and i
felt only warmth
in the sweet respite
of our shared laughter
at his expense.
Mostly in talks with my sister
Do I realize
I’ve been chasing something of a ghost.
A ghost that I’ve managed to idolize
Most of my life.
A ghost that avoided me
In dire times of need.
A ghost that was devoid of all
But anger.
God,
That anger has seeped its way
Into my life,
And stained my very foundation.
Always lingering.
Ready to lunge.
But I guess that’s what a father does.
At least mine anyways.
The fickle resident of my skull
Sorting through storage,
I find treasures tucked
into crevices of boxes and totes
long-forgotten items once adored
trophies from pageants, graduation caps,
birthday cards, photos, autographed
newspapers and books.
Things my mamaw loved
dolls, Corelle dishes, those Pyrex baking pans
that held so many cobblers, and
big heavy bowls she used to mix cornbread.
We wade through years
making piles to keep and
piles to pass on to others who can use it
stirring up stories from memories
tucked between pages or
rolled up in rugs or
hugging a teddy bear who’d been there
through all those tough times.
I’m descended from a long line of wrinkled, worrying women. Women who over the generations have wondered: Am I good enough?Did I make the right choice?Will people like me? Women whose standard was perfection and superhuman emotional strength. It’s an undertow that can sabotage your life.
Lucky for me, I’m
A strong swimmer who knows
To swim cross-current.
LHM 2023
