Like excising a tooth gone bad,

She’s had her fill, she says, had her fill of arm poking, the blue gloved hands tap tap tapping to fatten her anorexic veins, draining off her blood like a moonshiner at his still, having to watch that precious red life of her drifting away, sending it off to who knows where to be spun and scanned and dissected until it doesn’t know itself anymore, those same hands injecting chemicals with strange screwy names and numbers, mixed cocktails like some exotic party favor but it’s a party she’s had her fill of, until it seems that those blue gloved hands claw toward her even in dreams, she’s had her fill of the arctic-laced rooms and the warming blankets, rooms to witness your breath even in the August of days, she’s had her fill of the wheelchairs and canes and shucking her clothes, having cold metal pressed against her marrow-shivered bones, had her fill of not being told the truth as if she were a child, all the Keep up the faiths and You’re so braves as she stumbles through the hospital halls full of waiting rooms to the waiting car and the waiting house and the vile sick to her stomach and the dizzy-flustered hours and the waiting to die, and just when the body starts to mend, starts to feel like jigging a hallelujah or two, having to do it all over again, when all she wants to do is settle on her porch swing and take pleasure in the turning seasons, maybe eat a fried bologna sandwich, have an RC Cola be the only frosty thing in the room, listen to a twang of Garth Brooks or Dolly Parton, and when the end does come she only wants to say that she’s had her fill of birds broadcasting their voices to the world, had her fill of breezes that loiter the day playing tag with leaves and the corn tassels in the neighbor’s garden, had her fill of Christmases and birthdays and Halloweens with kids parading up to her door like fairies and goblins, had her fill of grassy picnics and the sweet sing of rain against her tin roof, had her fill of creek dipping and rising to mountains in the blue mist, she wants to say she’d had her fill of miracles and kindness and love, had her fill of hugs and big slobbery dog-breath smooches and cats that lick your cheek and cozy your lap, but most of all she wants to say she’s had her fill of the moon, that silver sister who listens to her in the deep night, that quiet fire eating her pain, the nightly dazzle whispering to her heart that there’s nothing left to do but lay it all down, whispering to close her eyes and finally be full    

The bowling alley lights fuzz away
into yellowed wavering holograms, 
bad stars burned lazily into the ceiling.
She strikes out again, snuffs them all 
like the cigarettes she coughs up
parading under the overhang.

In McDonalds everyone assembles,
pretends to be forgotten constellations.
But I’m wearing someone else’s rings,
sleeping open-eyed on someone else’s 
bed of nails, hiding my bags beneath
and pretending they’re not there.

At long last the right eye
can see dazzling light.
Differentiate green clouds of leaves, 
now a tree as itself.
I suddenly want to read
700 pages of non-fiction.

I went to the cataract factory,
where miles of faded green plaid curtains
separate all of us waiting,
wearing blue paper hairnets,
drugged and told to look
at the white light.
After what seems like the blink of an eye,
wheelchair bound,
returned to our driver, 
–who we barely recognize–
a son, a daughter, a spouse, a friend– 
wait so I have friends? Kids? A Lover?!

Today, half my life is almost perfect.
There is a black swirl of smoke,
a smudge, an ocean wave,
ebbs and flows, moments of clarity.

I wonder how long it took them

one side of Old Washington Hall
hosts the art guild & writers group
the other a funky jazzy cafe

you’re the accepted protocol 
curbside from Phyllis’ lamp shop,
apple tablet under umbrellaed 

writing table, every Friday the trolley
and its melancholy bell rounds up
stragglers for the underground

railroad tour: here’s the Harriet Beecher
Stowe House with its view
of the auction block

that started the civil war
& we’re so proud
to show how a few brave

and lucky souls escaped
the night the river froze—
look there, the tour guide 

glides by pointing you
out as the old crank
waiting for his free ham

 sandwich & cup of joe

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