In Search of The Page

I can do nothing but close the door
and leave it all behind me
in search of the page.
This afternoon
I stood in the Atlantic
and let the ocean roll across my feet.
Broken Sand dollars
not worth the coral they were made from
lay on the sand
baking in the sun.
The Pina Colada
melting
in my bottle
and down my throat,
the lizard on the leaf
hiding
from the day.
These are the images,
the moments,
I hold.
My own moments,
that no one else
has
or will ever know that
I’m having.

Out of The Rabbit Hole

Perhaps it is the amino acids I started taking,
or the crisp fall mornings,
or the butterflies gathering outside my window,
or the leaves turning bright yellow and orange.
Perhaps it is the walk I took in the woods,
or my eating salmon weekly,
or the smile the valet gave me when I walked passed him
at the Kroger supermarket.
I don’t know.
But whatever it is,
I feel better today,
as if a veil were being lifted,
as if I were Alice in Wonderland,
and I were slowly,
slowly
finding my way
out
of the rabbit hole.

Black Butterfly

The black butterfly
came to me
and landed on my white t-shirt.
He fluttered near my ear
like a lover
tickling me.
He circled round me
teasing me
with his exotic beauty.
But
when I gave in,
to reach out and touch him,
he was gone.

Nature's Bounty

I am struggling against the tide.
Struggling against the ebb and flow
of age
and dollars and aches.
The morning stiffness
that claims my low back and limbs,
the fogginess of mind
that covers me daily.
Outside the leaves are coming down.
The long brown leaves
skinny as adolescent girls
cover the black mulch.
Nature knows when to come,
when to let go her bounty
and renew.
Not me.
I hold on till the end,
till
I have no choice
but to let go
in order
to become
who I am.

Forgotten Kindness

I should have known last night
when she called me at nine o’clock
and told me that she wanted to come see the house this morning
that she was a flake.
Instead I got up at eight and spent the next two and a half hours
vacuuming, mopping, scrubbing,
washing, polishing,
and Windexing everything.
I even drove to the grocery store and bought a four dollar bunch of white daisies
for the kitchen table.
Then she had the nerve to call my machine
at ten twenty and tell me that her buyers had decided on another house
and that they weren’t coming for their ten forty-five appointment.
I couldn’t believe it.
I had been stood up.
I felt rejected.
Horribly rejected.
They hadn’t even bothered to come see my house
after I worked on it for over two hours.
I wanted to call her back
and tell her off.
I wanted to tell her the least she could do
would be to come and see the house
even if they didn’t want to buy it.
I wanted to call her bosses
and tell them she was a phony bitch.
But instead I stood there and looked at my perfectly clean house
and tried to justify how I had spent my morning.
“the tub needed scrubbing anyway.” I whispered, like a forlorn child.
But tonight I am still hurt.
What kind of person does that?
Calls someone up,
puts them out,
and then doesn’t come twenty minutes before they are due?
I am not so cynical as to believe
that business is business.
There still must be kindness and manners in this world
even if we have all forgotten.

Tom the grocer

Gives me Honey Crisp apples,
dark chocolate,
organic coffee,
and slices of red plums.
He says he wants a lover,
but what he really wants is me.

Anything But Roses

It was like a reality t.v. show
The twenty-something couple sitting at the table behind us,
talking about their future.
“I don’t want to have kids any later than thirty-six.
But first I want to travel and just be with you.
I’m not ready for motherhood.”
I almost chocked on my Lard Nar.
I threatened to stab myself in the eyeballs with my chopsticks
if I had to listen to any more of her dribble.
It was nauseating.
She had it all perfectly worked out.
Where they would be,
how they would live,
how many kids.
We could barely decide if we wanted tofu in our Lard Nar
or not,
much less decide on what we were doing for the rest of our lives.
I turned back to look at her.
She had one of those Ivory soap faces,
perfectly white
with mousey blond hair pulled back in a ponytail.
Her lover
was nothing more than a lap dog
agreeing to her every thought.
He was like a mirror
refusing to reflect anything but roses.
When they got outside the restaurant
he grabbed her and they kissed for over a minute.
It was one of those long slow motion kisses,
full of arching backs and bodies.
Her hair blowing in the breeze.
Mouths open and moving.
I watched as two men sitting at a nearby table stopped eating
to watch them kiss.
They couldn’t believe it either.
Neither could the couple next to them.
We all just shook our heads and
then started laughing.
It went on for so long it was absurd.
I wanted to tell the other patrons,
“that’s nothing, if you want something really ridiculous,
just listen to them talk about their plans for the future."
Then they stopped kissing and he took her by the hand and they sauntered off.
Ten to one,
five years from now they won’t even remember
each other’s names.

Diapers and Gin

Who cares
that you’ve got nothing to wear?
“Not I,”
said the little red hen
who clucked and prattled on in the sun
in search of seed for her bread.
Go tell your problems
to someone who cares.
You who nurse
and bathe and wash
and pretend that motherhood and marriage
is everything.
Now that your nipples bleed
and your hands are cracked from washing bottoms
and bottles,
how does your garden grow?
You
who said they would make
you the woman you’ve never been,
look what you’ve become.
Bedraggled,
befuddled,
a lifeless corpse walking down grocery store aisles
in search of diapers and gin.
Your body
sagging
and drained.
Your eyes
dark circles of endless nights
and tears.
Where is your smile now?
You who proclaimed motherhood your salvation,
is it still all that you thought it would be?

The Proper Doll

After I said what I wanted
I froze.
The words,
once out of my lips,
hung
like icicles
off the roof.
How dare I ask for what I want?
How dare I make a sound?
When I orgasm,
when I cry,
when I hit my hand with a hammer
and break skin.
I should lie still
and be good,
and take it all in.
Yes, daddy,
take all of it in.
Isn’t that what you taught me?
To never say a word.
To never make a sound.
To be the proper doll
lonely and neat,
waiting in closets
for you
to come.

Open To September

I am tired of riding this dead horse,
across the plains,
across the valleys,
across the rivers that sing.
You say I don’t have to.
You say put down your sword
and pick up your flute.
How easy it is for you.
There,
in your leather chair
with the wrinkled cushion,
bottle of port at your side.
I watch the smoke curl round you
like a belly dancer’s veil.
But I digress.
It’s Monday and the towels need washing
and the floor needs mopping.
Yes.
I had forgotten the diary on the kitchen table
left open
to September
catching autumn leaves
and secrets
while I sat here on my
purple futon
smiling.

Running Water

I gave the dog a bath
but neither of us feel any better.
Not the dog,
lying in the sun
glaring at me
for what I had done,
or me,
wet,
from the dog's shaking.
I thought if I gave the dog a bath
it would be one thing
I could make better,
one thing I could control.
Besides
it was 90 degrees today,
the last hot day of summer,
before fall comes
and there aren’t any more warm days
to wash the dog.
I stood there with the water
running,
wetting and scrubbing the dog,
trying to get the dirt out,
trying to make something shiny
that had become dull.
But when I turned off the hose,
everything was exactly the same,
except my shoes
were wet.

Why I Write

There is a better way to do it
than the way they did it
with all the yelling and screaming
and insanity.
It didn’t have to be like that.
Eruptions and explosions,
the calm,
the Ben-gay,
the Valium
passed out to hands like communion.
I think of them now,
locked in that house
of dog hair and filth,
the t.v. blaring,
Gigi,
the daily struggle for control
over trash duties,
toilet seats,
and dishes,
the chaos of dysfunction
screaming
for attention,
lost on three sets of ears
who can not hear their own voices
much less anyone else’s.
No wonder I sat in the backseat and stared out the window
silent.
No wonder I write.
There was never room
for one more voice.
There still isn't.

Save Me Jesus

When she calls me she speaks of Jesus
and asks me if I’ve read the Bible
and if I’m a Christian yet.
She tells me she is dying,
in her “heart of hearts”
and I believe her.
I believe some part of her knows.
Like the day I knew I should have gone right
instead of left,
smacked by a white Ford truck,
driven by a man from the hills
who didn’t know the color of the light
or what day it was.
Blood dripping from my cracked nose.
A moment’s choice changed forever.
Somewhere I knew.
Just as she knows,
she is dying.
Slowly
losing her mind,
aware enough to know she is losing it,
aware enough to ask.
I try to calm her,
to tell her she’s o.k.
but I am lying.
Isn’t that what good Christians do?