What There Is To Learn

What there is to learn

comes in between the sobs,

the dark glasses,

the furious emails trying to explain and explain.

It comes after the sleepless nights

and endless hours of stomach flips.

It comes in dreams,

anxiety ridden dreams of fathers

wearing wigs and suits,

they have never worn before,

hiding in closets,

molesting their daughters.

It comes in foreign languages,

where words have two meanings

and you can’t understand either.

It comes in backrooms of libraries,

books on the floor,

phones silenced like electric heartbeats.

It comes by saying, “no” when you want to say, “yes”,

and ,“yes” when you want to say, “no.”

It comes in chasing when you want to walk away.

It comes when abandonment takes the steering wheel

and drives like a lunatic across town

to feed an ex-boyfriend’s dog a burger.

It comes when you finally get quiet enough to listen,

to hear that part of your self that knows why it aches

so badly,

and why it can’t get present inside its own body,

no matter how hard it tries.

It comes with the knowledge that learning never comes

easily or without painful stimuli,

unless you’re fucking blessed.

It comes when you realize that

“they” aren’t the ones,

“their” actions,

“their” words,

don’t matter.

What matters is the wounds.

Only the wounds.

It comes when you finally understand

that the reason you are acting so crazy today

started years ago. 

Just A Girl

There is a knife

I like to push

into my chest

over and over,

over and over,

A bloody rose

to keep me

feeling.

Without it

I would be, 

just a girl. 

Forever Yours

Were my lips yours,

I would kiss them

all summer long

against the rain

and the sun

like a dance with no end

and no beginning.

Were my eyes yours,

I would open them,

and see

Heaven

out my back door.

The roses in bloom,

perfectly alive,

like newborn babies

unblemished and pure,

forever soft to the touch.

Were my ears yours,

I would hear the sweetest of notes.

The lark drunk with sound,

making his way to sorrow

to nurse his forgotten wounds.

The boulevard of plums

bursting and ripe,

waiting to fall.

It is not madness to believe such things.

To feel so close

to another,

your heart beats as theirs,

your arms,

your hands,

your legs.

Thoughts kicking in twilight

against the backdrop of your face,

a soft wing beating

in my hand.

Forever yours, 

I am.

Oh Sylvia (for Sylvia Plath)

Oh Sylvia, Sylvia,

dead in the oven.

What became of a girl

such as you?

Hair twisted and curled

like a cinnamon roll

glistening sweet with collegiate innocence.

Oh Sylvia, Sylvia,

where did you go?

Was the air too much to breathe?

Too heavy a weight for your

pretty pink lungs,

the morning dew unfolding

round you,

taking your smile,

with the sun.

Oh Sylvia, Sylvia,

a sensitive girl,

taking no pleasure on earth,

The bearing of children,

the bedding of men,

left you alone

with nowhere

to turn,

when turning is where you began.

A student, a scholar,

a daughter to envy,

carrying words in your satchel.

A smile couldn’t hide

your dark

bloody mind.

Or keep the New England cold

from your skin. 

Your Crippled Past

There will be a time when

you will leave it all behind –

your crippled past.

And you will limp into the present.

Your life

here and now,

on the floor,

legs bent,

arms overhead,

sucking in your stomach

like a dying starfish.

And you will forget the tears.

The nights on the toilet

sobbing,

over past lovers,

who have hurt you,

done you wrong,

with their lies,

and their lips.

And you will remember

only what is –

The carpet beneath you.

The fluorescent lights.

The smell of the ocean

pressing in to you.

You will realize,

you are different.

You are someone

you never thought you

would be.

And you stop eating grapes.

Seventy Two and Sunny

I am trying to let myself be free.

Trying to give myself permission

to get in the car and drive seven hours to Florida.

It’s supposed to be in the seventies there this weekend.

So, it seems like a nice time to go.

Before the crowds come

and before spring break.

But, I’m hesitating.

It’s absurd, really.

There is not one good reason for me not to go.

There is nothing keeping me here.

No job.

No kids.

No dog that has to be fed.

And yet, I can’t seem to make myself go.

So then, being the overly analytical person that I am,

I start asking myself questions -

What’s really going on?

Do I not deserve it?

Am I unworthy?

After fifteen minutes of doing this,

and a cup of green tea, 

I conclude that some part of me must think that I am.

Yes, that's it, 

I don’t deserve to have a good time.

But that’s crazy,

utterly crazy.

If it were someone else,

some friend who asked me if they should go,

I would tell them to go in a second.

Take a few days off.
Enjoy yourself.

Walk on the beach.
Feel the sand on your toes

and the sun on your back.

Relax.

But it's not me talking to some friend,

it's me talking to me.

And I am no friend of mine. 

Relax?

I haven't relaxed in years.

I don’t know how to relax

or enjoy myself.

While normal people start packing and looking for sun block

when they are about to go on a trip,

I start making a mental laundry list of

all the things that could go wrong:

I won’t like the bed.

I won’t like the food.

Someone will bother me.

There will be noisy neighbors.

It will be too cold.

It will be foggy.

I’ll step on a jellyfish.

I’ll get in a wreck.

I’ll get a speeding ticket.

I’ll get food poisoning.

I’ll trip on a conch shell.

I’ll get eaten by a shark.

I’ll feel like I made a mistake.

And then it hits me.

"Feel like I've made a mistake."

I know that one. 

I always feel like I made a mistake.

I might as well feel that way

sitting on the beach where it's 

seventy two and sunny. 

Ready To Begin

I am the spiral staircase.

Ham on rye.

The bottom of the bowl

licked clean

by my teachers.
So many hands on my body

I can no longer tell

which ones are mine.

The girl in the back of the room.
The shy one,

who knew all the answers,

but was too afraid to answer.

Yes, that one.

I waited in corners,

shadows of my own making,

and hoped someone would

come.

Now, you are here.

Pushing me out with your broom.

Telling me I can be more

than I have been.

Wrenching the strength from my arms

with your measured brown eyes.

Refusing to accept my protests,

or believe my little-girl tears.

I would curse you if I could,

but it wouldn’t change a thing.

Tomorrow, 

I will be at your door

again, 

ready to begin. 

Falling Apples

I’d like to go back to bed this morning.

Curl up under the layers of down

and cotton and rest my head

on my aging pillow,

the one that’s got nothing left inside,

the one that I still reach for anyway.

But there are songs to write,

and scripts to begin,

and a poetry book I have been threatening

to compile for years now.

Still, the white-sheeted bed calls to me,

if only for a minute.

But I can’t get in it,

because if I did get in it,

I would be like my mother.

My mother’s in bed right now,

sleeping her life away.

And I don’t want to be like my mother.

Even though I seem to be becoming more like her

every day.

My hands are starting to wrinkle like hers.

And my skin is becoming thin like hers.

It cracks in winter, like hers.

But it’s not just my exterior taking on her attributes,

there are things on the inside too,

things that I swear

do not belong to me -

The occasional racial slur,

or judgmental barb,

the kind that I would have barked at her for saying years ago

are now, suddenly, coming out of my mouth.

Besides her dermatological and verbal issues,

I seem to have inherited her depression,

her stomach’s inability to seemingly digest anything,

and her need for reading glasses after reaching a certain advanced age.

But most terrifying of all,

I seem to have developed her penchant for falling.

I’d been in bed for the day sick with a weird stomach flu,

asleep for several hours in the afternoon,

and woke up just in time to catch the evening news.

I stumbled out of bed, disoriented and hungry.

At the last second,

I chose the bathroom over the kitchen,

and stepped on a plastic door stop left on the floor.

My ankle turned beneath me, snapping like a piece of celery, 

and sent the rest of me twisting forward.

Hands out, wrists bruised,

left knee smacking the ground.

In a second,

it was over.

I sat up in complete darkness,

unsure what had just happened.

All I could think about was how much I felt like my mother in that moment.

How much I was turning in to her.

I was having the kind of day she would be having,

and it didn’t matter how much exercise and good eating I have been doing,

or how many vitamins I have swallowed,

or how much meditation I have sat for,

or how many yoga classes I have attended.

I was turning into her.

And there was nothing I could do about it.

Later that night,

as I lay in bed icing my ankle,

I called my mother.

She too, had been in bed with a stomach flu all day.

But she hadn’t fallen,  

at least,  not yet. 

Vision Loss

The “awesome” freaks of the world are killing me.

You know the kind, “Everything is awesome.”

“That was so awesome man”.

“Did you see his jump? It was awesome.”

“Totally awesome.”

“That show was awesome.”

Everything is “awesome”.

The word is so overused.

Like, “like”.

And, “so”.

“Awesome” has no meaning now.

You might as well say something was

so “paper.”

Or “Bookshelf.”

Or “Envelope.”

“That was so envelope.”

“Yeah, totally bookshelf.”

Nothing has meaning anymore when everything is

“awesome.”

Brilliant and average walk hand in hand

along the same street of mediocrity

with neither being singled out. 

But there is a difference.

I wonder about the “awesome” people

of this world.

Have they lost all perspective?

Or are they simply so superficial

they are incapable of really feeling anything?

Can they no longer discern

when they are experiencing an event that is worthy of a deep response 

versus something fleeting and insignificant?

“Did you see that pigeon poop?” “It was –“

Yes.

Totally.

I wonder what kind of world we will have

when our society is incapable of recognizing

what truly is 

"awesome."

America

Today,

we came and sat and listened

to the words of our leaders and statesmen.

We let our hearts rise

like the tiny pink balloons

that they are,

and gave hope that they might reach

the sky

unfettered.

We craned our heads back and

took in the years of those who have come before us.

The mothers and fathers,

sisters and brothers,

each with a story of their own to tell.

We breathed deeply

inhaling the suits and ties,

the green of the lawn,

the metallic glint of limo after limo.

And we shed tears.

Tears for emotions we did not even know

we had. 

We stopped

and we listened to the beating of our own hearts.

And for a moment,

we forgave the past.

We let ourselves dream the dream we were

taught in classrooms as children-

that in this country

anything can happen.

Everywhere Sex

Sleep,

the ancient rain

comes again.

Pounding on my windows

as if to say,

“wake up.”

I roll to my side

and pull the blankets over my head,

and dream of New Orleans

and beignets.

Coffee

black with chicory

and milk.

The hot sun

and the buzz of insects

at every block.

Oysters sliding down my throat

tangy with horseradish and cocktail sauce,

filling me up with sex.

Everywhere.

Sex.

We rode the trolley

and ran in the park

wearing our sandals and shorts,

And never once worried about time.

Now,

greens and reds run from us,

as galleries shut their doors with the dusk.

We sit on the bench

eating carrots,

a couple of weird rabbits.

Silent. 

January 4th

It's all going down.
Numbers falling.
Fortunes lost.
The sweet taste of fruit disappearing on my tongue.
My impenetrable company
turning tide
and running scared from the masses.
This morning I was sure it would make its comeback, 
pick up steam and head for the gate like a horse
who could smell the barn.
Run me hard
till I could barely hold on. 
But one hour in, my predictions have faded.
What's right is wrong.
What's up is down.
I put my head in my hand and close my eyes
and wait for the spinning to stop.
My father always says, "don't fall in love with it."
And I say in response,  "I'm not. "
But the truth is, I am.
I am in love.
I have watched it rise and dance upon the clouds
taking me with it.
A warm wet Samba of notes,
holding me close, 

like a foreign lover I never quite understood

when they spoke.
I thought it would last forever,
like sand on the beach,
or the shine of the moon.

But I was wrong.

Lovers leave. 

Friends aren't always friends.

And that sparkly Christmas tree

at the YMCA,

the one with all the ribbons and lights,

is nothing more than ugly green plastic 

they shove in a long cardboard box

on the fourth of January. 

Frozen

It is like that now.

Everything hurts.

My low back.

My inner thighs clamped against each other.

The smell of Ben-Gay in my office

leading me

to places I haven’t touched in years.

How easily broken I am.

And have always been.

The porcelain doll

with the frozen green eyes,

dressed in lace.

My red lips

cursing,

the day.

When did it get so hard?

I want to run,

Mother.

Into the yard

and swing from the trapeze,

the way I did when I was little.

When I could still hang upside down

without throwing up.

When I thought the sun was a jewel

I could keep in my music box.

Legs wide.

Feet tight.

That metal chain seemed to reach the sky

and never let me

fall,

once.

You watched from the side

while you backwashed the pool

or picked up the occasional stick or pinecone,

or yelled at the yardman for not showing up when he was supposed to.

The neighbors’ dogs on the other side of the wooden fence,

barking,

always barking,

while the ants crawl up my dress.

Happy New Year

It is that dark night,

when we must say goodbye

to all that has been

and hope for what will come,

tomorrow.

At midnight,

we will begin again.

Baptized like a newborn baby,

the wine dripped upon our heads,

redeeming us

as the sky fills up with confetti.

Our weary eyes

searching back through the year

hoping

hoping,

we will find something we can point to

where we can say,

“See, I did this. I existed. I mattered.”

The sound of steel being hammered into submission.

The blade of grass cut and left to die.

Our endless stupidity,
like those who have come before us

kneeling at the altar and crying.

Our bottles and tables perfectly arranged,

candles lit,

appetites filled.

Glasses held high toasting the

unforeseen.

Our prayer.

To be different. 

Waiting For The Mail

All morning I waited for the mail.

It usually comes by 10:00 a.m.

So around 10:30, I started checking the mailbox.

Nothing.

Fifteen minutes later, I checked again,

positive, that somehow, I missed hearing the mailman.

Still nothing.

I went in to the kitchen and started cooking and thought,

“O.k. it’s 11o’clock, it’s got to be there by now.”

So, I opened the door, lifted the black metal lid, and still,

nothing.

I shut the door, 

embarrassed that the neighbors had seen me look for the mail three times now, 

like some OCD lunatic.

The weird part was,

I don’t even know what I was checking for.

I just wanted the mail.

(And some part of me was sure there was going to be something really fantastic in it.)

After all, Christmas was only three days ago.

What if there were some late Christmas card 

from someone who couldn’t get it together,

or even a present?

I felt like Charlie Brown.

It was possible.

Wasn’t it?

Around 12:30, after making lunch and eating it

in about four minutes,

I opened the door once more and saw the black metal lid half-open.

The mail had arrived!

I pulled it out and began rifling through it.

Three donation envelopes, two cheesy catalogues, and one redplum.com reader later,

I had gone through the mail.

All of it.

No presents.

No cards.

No green envelopes from the WGA.

It all went straight into the trash.

“All that anticipation for nothing”, I thought.

I do that a lot – think that what’s coming is going to be fantastic, 

only to find out that it really isn’t.

Like that new pair of slippers that I think I must have

will probably end up hurting my feet.

And that new set of sheets that I saw in the magazine

will probably be returned because they’ll itch my skin.

And that shirt I got for Christmas, the clingy one that reveals everything, 

will probably end up stuffed in a drawer never to be worn.

For me, it’s always the things that I never see coming that end up being the best –

The stranger who stops and hands me the glove that I dropped.

Or the tangerine I peeled that’s sweeter than any I’ve ever had, 

even though the previous two sucked.

Or the substitute ballet teacher who compliments 

my turnout even when my regular ballet teacher never has.

And even though I know all of this,

or say I know all of this,

the truth is,

every morning,

I’ll still be

waiting 

for the mail. 

Christmas on 4th

I am sitting in the black cashmere cape.

The one your aunt left behind when she died.

The one I never would have purchased on my own,

but now find myself wearing all the time,

like some dark poetess.

I am swollen,

a stuffed turkey

on Christmas morning.

The gifts I wanted to put under the tree

never materialized,

we were too sick to go out and buy them.

Instead, we stayed home 

and made kale and white bean soup,

and red cabbage with apples and beer,

and cranberry with pear,

and we ate and we ate,

and we marveled at how much we have 

without a single present to unwrap. 

Rum Punch

It isn’t the severed head on the block

that frightens me,

or the way corn is two for a dollar

in December,

or how faces smile without meaning

as they pass in red Fords.

Yes,

my stockings are hung.

Red and green with moose heads and bear.

Labels still attached for a return I’ll never make.

And what of it?

It’s nothing,

I promise.

It’s just,

sometimes a girl

wants to be a girl,

and wear short skirts and heels

and dance to the Talking Heads

while nobody is watching.

Boots clicking on wooden floors,

hips swaying in search of rum punch

and love.

Look,

over in the corner,

the mistletoe is hung.

Christmas is coming.
See.

There’s no way of stopping it.

It will be here in a week

with ribbons and bows

and packages some will never unwrap.

And I will return to my tree,

the tabletop one with the needles dropping,

and I will kiss the ornaments,

each and everyone,

and pray they survive

another year. 

Lunacy

There must be some way

to drink down

lunacy.

To enjoy it in long sips

like a fine black tea

or a glass of wine.

Most of my life,

I have tried to hide from it,

keeping my head down,

scared turtle-like

hoping it would pass over me,

like some weird cumulus cloud

on its way to somewhere else.

But that has never worked.

When I feel lunacy coming near me

my body stiffens,

as if someone had poured green slime

down my back.

I feel the cold on my neck and the sick feeling

settling into my stomach.

I walk around the house unable to turn my head,

unable to get out of the way of future assaults. 

When someone asks me about it,

I want to say, “It isn’t me.   I’m not the one.

These aren’t my people.”

But that’s a lie.

I come from lunacy.

It is as much a part of me

as the mole on my right hand,

or my jagged fingernails,

the ones I have bitten down to the quick,
just like my mother. 

Gluten Free

Somehow,

in all of this,

I must learn to forgive myself,

for not being,

the perfect daughter,

the mother

I could have been,

or the woman I should have been.

I am standing at this fork,

looking at the roads I could have gone down,

but for endless reasons chose not to.

Last night I dreamed

my pregnant friend was at a party standing over the grave of someone

freshly buried.

“I don’t want to go, “ I said.

“I can’t eat the cookies.”

“I’m gluten free.”

“They’ll have nothing there for me to eat. So there’s no point in my going.” I told my sister.

But that was a lie.

I didn’t want to go.

I was too scared.

Too scared.

Today,

my stomach hurts.

It burns and belches

and refuses to quiet down.

It feels as if it is eating me alive,

while just around the corner the maple leaves
have turned to red.   

Cut On The Bias

Outside my window three more have gone up,
father.
Brick and steel and wood.
Gravel everywhere.
The sound of hammers and generators.
Hardhats on hard men.
Hands clutching blankets in search of progress.
New structures taking the place of an empty lot
where an old grocery store used to be.
And still it beats.
People used to hang out and sell drugs
and do their laundry, and buy pork rinds and beer.
Now they will sell for 400k
and my view of the street will be blocked,
shortened,
reduced to nothing more
than a blinking green light.
Tell me more, father.
Tell me of oxygen and blue skies
and the way people used to sing the blues
sitting on concrete
while men who held scalpels cut on the bias.
Tell me of the strudel makers.
The ones who could roll out a pie crust flaky as a fall leaf,
whose hands were so strong they could wrench chickens’ necks
in one snap,
 whose teeth were full of gold when they smiled.
Where are they in these new town homes with the stainless appliances
and the granite countertops?
Do they even care about whose tears they are blotting?
Tomorrow the men in trucks will come again
and my world will become even smaller.