Still Here

Could you throw me the ball?
That one in the corner.
The one with the red stripe and the yellow dots.
The one no one has played with
for years.
The dull one.
I know you were looking for something else.
Something shiny and new.
Something no one has touched
like a golden haired virgin.
Go ahead.
Pick it up.
It won’t hurt you.
You can touch it.
It’s round and beautiful
and resilient.
See?
What does it matter how long it has sat
unnoticed?
It still has bounce left in it.
It’s still worthy.
Maybe it’s better than all the others.
It’s still here.

Satisfied

What are we doing in this so called life?
Pursuing the dollar
without remorse?
Are our energies fixed on finding love
and keeping it close like a caged bird?
Is it shiny objects that make us move?
Like a cat having a mirror dangled before its eyes?
Or is it fame and the adoration of others
that fuels us?
Are we nothing more than selfish beings of desire
wanting only the biggest and best and grandest and richest
for ourselves regardless of the suffering of others?
Are our biggest worries about what car we should drive
and if we should get it with leather?
Or whether or not our kitchen needs a makeover?
Have we gotten so caught up in the drama of our own lives
that we have forgotten those around us who have far less?
I am guilty of the questions I ask.
I have worried over dollars
and watched my portfolio bloom
like some sort of Scrooge
counting my pennies
and smiling over each new copper accumulated,
only to be devastated by every loss.
Now I can see
what a waste of time.
What a fruitless waste.
I say that I am a humanitarian
because I don’t eat meat,
but what have I done for my fellow man
or animal?
Have I taken some poor refugee into my home?
Have I taken a few hours out of my day to visit an animal in a shelter
who has no one or nothing and has no promise of another day?
Have I done anything about the women in the Congo who are being raped?
Have I given my time to a child whose parents are addicts and unable to tell them
they love them?
No,
and for that I am ashamed.
I have let myself focus on the wrong things,
mundane things.
This is not what God wanted for me
or for any of us.
I pray to focus on what matters,
to keep myself always reaching for the higher good,
to remember I am here to serve others
especially the voiceless.
If I can do that,
I will be satisfied.

Strange

Once in August,
the city was silent and attentive.
It came to me
like a butterfly
and landed upon my hand.
Oh,
but I digress.
Did you see that fat woman in the Indian restaurant?
The one with the green cap on her head and the
pink stockings.
Strange.
It is getting harder for me to eat out.
Each bite is a nightmare
into a world unfamiliar.
Now the sky is turning grey
and the snow will begin to fall.
I wish I could be like that snow,
landing wherever I wanted,
tied to no one or nothing,
just falling,
falling,
falling.
Last summer I planted tomatoes in my yard.
They grew red and ripe and round.
I ate them before the insects came
and before the sun baked them into sauce.

Him

Images of him still come to me:
Him
in the backseat of my car barking at every cow and horse
we passed on our way to Chicago.
Him
running through the creeks at Warner Park
after some poor ground squirrel that was minding his own business
and didn’t see him coming.
Him
lying on his bed and staring at me for hours
hoping I would get up from my writing
and play with him or take him for a walk.
Him
coming in to my room in the morning
and yelling at me to get up,
as if he somehow knew how little time we had left together.
Him
barking at his meal before he ate it.
Him
humping his bed afterwards.
Him
sighing.
Him
struggling to howl out that pathetic howl of his
whenever a fire engine went by.
Him
jumping into my bed (till he couldn’t jump that high anymore)
and then taking up the entire bed once he was in.
Him
getting me out of my sadness.
Him
greeting me at the door with his tail always wagging.
Him
always ready for an adventure.
Him.

Dead Moon

It is time I found
the dead moon.
The part of me that beats
red
and says:
This is the rainy season.
It is time for buttered toast and jam
and the white eyes of a doll’s head.
It is time for cramming sugar into hallways
and squeezing milk out of flowers
and tasting colors and cocoa with cream.
I want to see the black of black
and know how far the sky.
It is time for the daisies
to suck down the ants
and have no remorse.

Yoga

In yoga
I follow my breath
down into my fingers and toes
out my nose,
and into my buttocks.
My body aches more now
than it used to.
I don’t know if that’s age or
the three car wrecks I have been in,
but whatever it is,
I hurt.
I look around and see others in ‘pigeon pose’
and wonder if they are in as much pain as I am in.
They all look so serene
draped over their legs like submissive swans.
It is all I can do to keep from screaming.
I think of the pain of so many years locked up inside me,
finding its way into the very fabric of my muscles
and I worry:
Can yoga erase years of abandonment?
Can it teach me to lighten up and flow?
Can it make the mental chatter in my head vanish
so I can sleep at night
without thought?
Can it teach me to live in the present
and not be concerned with what happened fifteen minutes earlier
or what’s coming an hour later when I leave this room?
Can it….?
Shut up, Diana.

I'm Sorry

I am really really really fucking angry.
I want my life back.
I want to be able to sit down and write and have no one,
I mean no one,
bother me.
I am sick of trips to the ER
and doctor’s appointments and going to St. Thomas
over and over again.
I am tired of answering the same questions my father asks day after day
while Alzheimer’s rots his brain.
I am sick of looking up at the hill and wishing my dog were still alive.
I am sick of waking up exhausted
even though I’m going to bed at 8 o’clock.
I am sick of having a sister I can’t trust.
I am sick of speeding tickets and cops
and people who have nothing better to do in this life
than make other people’s lives miserable.
I am sick of politics and pundits,
and the media,
and all the bullshit,
and the lack of truth,
there is so little truth left in this world.
I feel like I am coming apart at the seams.
I showed up in court today for a speeding ticket and the judge was late,
sick with some flu or something.
The damn police officer said she was sorry.
Sorry.
Great.
I guess I could just say I’m sorry too and that would be the end of it,
right?
Yeah,
right.
So now we’re all supposed to just sit there
and wait for some sick,
probably very pissed off judge to show up
and decide our fate,
as if there is any doubt as to what our fate will be.
Some world.
Some great fucking world.

Soldiers of Joy

In the den,
the Christmas decorations are back in their boxes
waiting to go up to the attic
so they can sit in the cold
and dark
for another year.
They do not mind the dust,
or the spiders that crawl past them,
or the rare mouse that scampers across
on his way to who knows where.
They do not mind being cooped up
in cramped quarters
only to be given a few short weeks to shine
downstairs.
They are soldiers of joy,
here to help me remember
there still is magic left
in this world.

Lemon In Water

If I sleep
I will wake up foggy,
unable to bring myself back
from the Mexican haze
rice and beans and guacamole have left me in.
There must have been MSG in the food
for I am mole faced now,
eyes closing back in my head,
mouth hung open
and dry like some plant left out in the sun
for too many days.
Normal Mexican food doesn’t do this to me
but this was Americanized Mexican food
staffed by waiters who call you “Amigo”.
They never speak mock Mexican in real Mexican restaurants,
nor do they have tables of bubble-headed teenagers
exchanging gifts and talking about endless hours of crap.
There are no bumper stickers on the backs of trucks that say “torture a terrorist”
or ones that support our current administration.
There are no fat white people jostling about trying to look at the Sunday football line-up
while they chug down a couple of margaritas.
Nor are there women in Christmas sweaters totting Oprah’s recommended read.
In real Mexican restaurants they don’t bring chips and salsa.
The fish arrives to the table whole,
eyes still in tact.
The waitresses wear tight jeans and bring tall glasses of Horchata.
They give you blank stares when you try to speak your high school Spanish to them.
In real Mexican restaurants they serve Caldo de Res,
and pozole and tripe,
things most Americans would never eat.
In real Mexican restaurants there is no Speedy Gonzalez plate
and no one ever gets lemon in their water.

Happy New Year

It’s a new year
and I’m hungry
for more than just rice and beans.
I want to walk outside in the cold
and feel awake.
I want the cold on my cheeks
and the crisp grasp of winter in my hair.
I want to take off my clothes and get warm
under the covers,
snuggle down into the down
and drink in the peace of flannel.
I want to savor a cup of hot tea
with a freshly baked muffin
and just be.
It’s like that now.
I am waking up to all that is
and could be,
like putting jalapenos in my cornbread.
For the first time.
I am realizing
I don’t have to wake up scared,
I can just
wake up.

Hide

When the curtain rises
hide.
Hide under tables and chairs
and in boxes and bags.
Hide
in the closet under long dresses and coats.
Hide
under beds and inside kitchen cabinets.
Stop and listen to the feet
looking for you.
Listen to their shuffle.
Giggle silently.
Remember
the part of yourself
that hid just for fun.
Hide
in
plain
sight.

The Last Christmas

Christmas came and went,
and with it
my hopes for having the kind of Christmas I’ve always wanted.
I picked my father up on Christmas Eve
from the Jewish Community Center.
His weekly poker game didn’t happen
so he had been sitting in the lobby for three hours.
I guess some of the men must have gentiles for wives
or else they like a good cup of eggnog
as much as the next WASP.
When he got in the car,
he acted like some kind of geriatric Scrooge,
telling me about his headache
and asking me where I had been
and why hadn’t I gotten him the second he called.
I had been dealing with a whole different crisis.
Seems he was overdrawn at the bank because the check my sister sent bounced
because he had been using his ATM card and we didn’t know he was using it.
So now, he’s yelling at me,
and I’m running around to closed banks
trying to get home before my mother sets the Christmas tree on fire
or decides to jump off the roof like the Flying Nun.
By the time we walk in the door he is in full
screaming mode
telling me he wants to go back to his apartment and
“to Hell with Christmas.”
Great.
I’ve been planning this thing for days,
running around to stores to buy Russian chocolates
and flowers and fresh pasta with Bolognese sauce
just so he won’t gripe there’s no meat at the table.
Meanwhile, my mother is trying to calm him down
stuttering out a few words about Christmas
and peace and my dead dog.
I shove a pizza in the oven hoping the smell
will bribe him in to staying.
I manage to get him to sit down and eat.
He gripes that the pizza is too spicy and
that I am a terrible person and an awful daughter.
Then my mother and I try to sing Christmas Carols
while my boyfriend plays the piano.
We make it halfway through Silent Night
before my father starts yelling in the background that we are giving him a headache
and he wants to go home.
Twenty minutes later
we are in the car taking both of them back to their apartment.
Christmas Eve lasted all of two hours.
I hadn’t even unwrapped the firewood to start a fire.
The stores had barely closed
and there were still cars in the parking lot.
On the way home
I thought about all the other Christmas’ he had ruined for me.
Maybe it’s because he’s Jewish/atheist
or because he believes religion is the root of all evil.
I don’t know and I don’t care.
For one night I wish he’d just shut up.
I mean it’s not like I’m hanging crosses on the wall
or have a manger scene set-up in my living room.
All we’re doing is drinking eggnog and eating cookies
and singing.
All we’re trying to do is make memories.
New memories.
The next day I made Christmas dinner,
and brought my mother over to eat with us.
I brought my dad a To Go Plate.

Grasping At Breakfast

What comes out isn’t pretty.
It’s all hands and
fingers and toes
grasping at breakfast
and love.
I wish I had a laugh for this condition.
But I don’t.
Left to my own lips I am violent
and thirsty.
I imagine figs ablaze
and the deep red of morning
coming to take me away.
A beautiful woman once,
with teeth like a pearl
smiling
at strangers and spoons,
I never worried when bills came
or my seeds washed away with the rain.
I only smiled and smiled
like some idiot
sitting on a float in the Macy’s Day Parade.
Now I am all nubs.
Fingernails chewed down to the stubs.
Hair flat as a postcard.
Eyes filled with worry.
I am losing my battle with life.
There is too much I can’t control.
My soul is dying
like a starfish left out in the sun
unable to reach the tide.
I am screaming.
Can’t you hear?
That sorrowful November,
and December,
and July,
the days ran from my veins
like hot cocoa.
The dog inside me
whining for food.
And yet
I know not what
I hunger for.

Sugar

Sugar is the Anti-Christ.
I am positive.
It is over the counter heroine.
The drug that needs no prescription
or FDA approval.
It is the enemy lurking on tables and shelves,
in cookies and cakes,
in pies and in tins.
It is the white gown begging for one last dance.
The jailed doughnut destined to break out.
The chocolate soufflé that never sinks.
It is the hunger that keeps growing
no matter how much you feed it.
Sugar is lollipops and taffy,
the frosting that can never be licked clean
from the stainless steel mixing bowl.
It is the birthday cake you never threw out.
It is an uncomplicated hymn
you can never sing just once.

Nellie

I did not come for you,
though I wanted to.
I saw your little face
begging and sorrowful,
head cocked to one side
wondering why you were in a cage,
so young.
I did not come for you
through the rain and the cars
and the shoppers.
I was too tired,
too old,
too worn down
from my life in a cage.
Now,
breakfast and love
and the desert sun
are all bones in my closet.
You’ll move off
to some grass chair
planting words
and rhymes
in New York City,
while I will stay
in the study
ripe as a peach
rotting in the windowpane.

Throwing Mud Balls

Look at that pot
that hole,
the one you have fallen into
year after year.
Can you not see it?
It is the same one
in the exact same spot,
and yet
you keep falling in
again and again.
Have you not eyes?
You say you can see
but there you are again
in the mud and the muck.
You say you have arms
but you do not use them to pull yourself out.
You say you have legs
but you do not move them.
You only stand there,
waist deep,
with that look upon your face,
the same one you had when you were five
and Emily Schuttee threw a mud ball
that hit you in the mouth.
Forty years later
the world is throwing mud balls at you
and you stand there with your mouth open wide
catching each and every one of them.

Last Night

Last night,
slamming the door,
I told you what lovers say.
December would come in a dream
sleeping till dawn
and the crows
would have their cocktails
alone.
You had no reply,
but sipped your ice
like blood
and waited for my tears.

Happy

In winter
I send myself
to the end of the week,
to the milkweed morning of mistletoe
where everything is new
as a dream.
There,
kneeling with my grandmother,
I ring the bell
and sing into the basin of silver
all my questions:
Will I marry?
How old will I be when I die?
Will I ever love?
She smiles at my naiveté
whispering
secrets she has never spoken
in my ear.
I will be happy she says.
Happy?
For too long now,
when asked if I could see the stars in the sky,
all I could utter was,
“I see black and mud.”
Happy?
Perhaps she has the wrong girl.
I am the bruised daisy
crawling toward God.
The cracked bread in the corner
crying misshapen tears.
The wingless rabbit cowering each night
by a bowl of soured milk.
I am second thoughts and doubts
and powdered sorrow left on the bathroom floor.
I look into her eyes
and again she says, “you will be happy.”
And for a moment,
I believe her
as if the sun were a bone I could bite into and hold.

Once A Keyhole

Once
a keyhole
came
and crawled through my mind.
I spoke daytimes
and put traces of dreams in my bed.
It is like that in families.
The jewel learns the nipple
like a body of bones.
You come to me
almost a prison,
and wear truth like silk,
a castle of lies and fingers
and say everything
I want to boat is no more.
My dog,
my cut,
my tulips.
Nothing will stop my mouth
but an architect rushing like a blood clot
to my brain.
Today my body is useless,
a delicate box of Kleenex
waiting to be torn and ripped.
This is my history,
my dance,
my fire.
I am the square bulb rising.
The fat metaphor.
The actress in the corner
eating my eight lovers
two by two.
Where could I go
where I would not be
forced
to swim
naked as a fish
in my own pool of circumstance?

White Curtains

The curtains here
are white
and hang like dead birds.
I have thought of mornings without them,
the naked glass reflecting blue and purple
into my eyes.
The scene inside left open to my neighbors,
disorderly conduct,
threads unkempt,
and the smell of rotten apples
on water stained windowsills.
My life is a picture book of perfect,
each night
a sweet pudding of lovemaking,
the rip of flesh and the floating bed.
You on your knees,
my body open,
ripe as a plum
ready to receive you.
I think perhaps we are selfish,
leaving so many
with nothing but muslin to look upon.