By The Bridge, Water

Weep

Weep, Weep

Little red bird

Little rose bud

Flowerless on a hedge 

Frozen tears

Little blue bird

Passing over time 

Clear skies on cloudy days

A paper cut

Little black bird 

Tips your red wings

Bleeding like my heart

A coo, A coup 

Little white dove 

Beneath the willow 

Crying out for silence

Sometimes, it slips

Clipped wings grow

As minds forget

We could ever fly

Yes, Thank Goodness

Air of Aphrodisia

Today, a starting pistol breaks open a keg of fire powder
That will terrorize this tongue once used for frigid sweetness.
 
An annual tradition set on a bet by a race of men, contaminated by
A scatter they introduce as “The Mrs.” whose name tags are lapel flowers;
 
Money soils hands that drop back into empty pockets. Gloves without fingers,
Touch fingertip to fingertip, before shooting into the garden.
 
For me, she takes point, down the flank of hedges into this deserted bush.
All betting continues, while only guns can be heard beyond the rustle of leaves.
 
Her choice, a void of inner-sanctuary, which renders the most unpicked flowers-
The potential for glory in their petals, nibbled by insects and exposed by rot spots.
 
She consents to our layering in the broken grass and although unplanned,
Submits to this resistance, a silent echo of fire, gunshot, and sweetness.
 
As I clear from her shoulders, crushed violets and whispers, I feel
A constant and consistent desire begin, I yearn for her, approval.
 
And by mid-afternoon a stale disintegration empties the garden, dumps us
On the steps and doorways, we ran through and bloomed against, as children.
 
The dawn’s promise of sugared cookies and sweet tea ignites, burns,
Now, only for her “yes,” tangled in this vined heat. Until night darkened.
 
I mute my own tongue, my lost bet, with a gin and tonic.
To stumble home calling out the cheers and rot and potential flame.
 
I open the door to my home, so blurred, I no longer recognize it.
Tell me, all is love, while I hope to clear the air of Aphrodisia.

Ally McBeal 350

I know the future isn’t found by picking up broken pieces of the past and trying to make them come back and work in the present.

It’s tough, that’s 50 years of hard work in the past, trying to make family work and dreams come true and a couple of generations of friends that I couldn’t bring with me; I do miss them and think of them often, maybe I’ll run into them, hug them or punch them in the face, but I know I don’t want that either.

I’ve seen that not work like I thought it would; I do try to stop myself when I feel I’m wasting energy or see that the stories I’m telling myself or others will not be bringing in the past back and isn’t helping anyone in the present.

Everything is different here in the present. It’s not what I thought all the work and living would feel like.

It’s hard because a lot of trauma processing is looking at the past, owning it, releasing it and facing it in the future when it pops up again, but that doesn’t work with everything, and it’s becoming more of a block than a bridge these days.

So, it’s time to see the future for the future, brand new again, like a child who has the whole world in front of her, but still an old lady with 50 years behind her.

I was also thinking about my 20’s when I was friends with people over 40 and the things I wanted them to hear and know, but I also didn’t want to remind them that there was a financial gap, or how different the world was back here, as opposed to what they were seeing and telling me.

I was so honored to fit into some of these friends’ circles, but often things that I needed to deal with they had experienced and very differently and the opportunity just never came up. I figured if I could keep up with these people, I didn’t need to dig into or face things that would have made being a 20-year-old, more normal.

I also see that I am the older lady among many young people, and I hope they are able to look at me at say, don’t forget, I’m 25 and still have questions about… still struggle with… You see this different because… I mean we don’t even know who Ally McBeal is…

Oh Trauma

 

Why the Broken was So Special

My heart broke a few times yesterday

No, don’t apologize

Would you be the person you are

If your heart was never broken

If your view of life and

Who you are vs who you thought you were

Weren’t thrown out the window

Like his belongings after a bad breakup

And jumped on and pissed on and burned

My heart mended a little bit yesterday

Look the stitches are still there

It’s still raw and hurts to breathe

I’m still raw inside and cry a lot

I spent it alone, as of course I would

Who I am vs who I will always be

I picked up what was left on the ground

Including my favorite dress that just needed

A little hemming around the cuffs

I had a little time yesterday

Just to walk around with a coffee

In my hand and the warm wind

Blowing the fall sun in my face

Warm and cool at the same time

It’s been months since I just stood there

Remembered how it was before the heart broke

Knew when I held her body for the last time

I buried who we were in the backyard

I moved on to new things yesterday

Said this is what I want for new days

Like today, and say tomorrow will be different

My best friend is gone, and my new friends

And I have learned to forgive in moments

We helped pack up what we moved across town

Apologized for the glass and nick knacks

We threw on the floor and broke

And held our hands as we told each other

Why what was broken was so special

Two Cats Screaming

There are two cats. Who?
Run this joint.
 
This cat will pour you-
Cream in soup bowls.
 
Delicious. That cat will serve biscuits,
With fish sauce. Nip on the side-
 
Won’t lick their paws in the kitchen;
No hairballs in front of the guests.
 
Can’t find pest control on the payroll
Part of union breaks by the dumpster;
 
Midnight, across the empty lot,
Two cats scream in terror:
 
“Keep dousing the fire,”
“It’s her favorite restaurant.”

True

 

My Mind

 
A crowded emergency room experience in a Nova Scotian hospital pre-2020
 
This nurse took my spectacles:
Put in an I.V.
 
That nurse took my blouse and jeans.
Put me in a Johnny shirt.
 
Said this will give me more time.
I asked a question...
 
Another nurse took my blood.
The answer is not in my blood.
 
See?
My mind is Ok. 
 
People pass as shadows and murmurs.
I want to see their beauty,
But must be hidden in ugly words
 
See?
My mind is ok
 
I hear: “She should be dead.”
I hear: “And have the right to choose.”
I hear: “Waste of food, wasted food.”
 
You see
Baby, my mind. 
 
My mind holds the memories:
I toss a balloon to my grandchild,
We are young and able.
 
My mind is…
Ok.
 
I hear a nurse: “her eyes are sunk so deep.”
My eyes? Where are all the mirrors?
I hear my daughter: “She needs her own room.”
 
Don't worry.
My mind is waiting
In a room of ugly words.
 
 
Tears fall from my mind.
I see…
I see…
 
I remember the day I couldn't get out of bed on my own.
I stopped worrying about being pretty enough.
I hear my daughter, a baby in her arms: “my mom needs her own room.”
 
I hear: my daughter weep.
I hear: the arrival of food.
I hear: “waste.”
 
And my daughter weep.
See, my daughter,
Is not ok with this.
 
“Bring me apple juice, I like apple juice.”
I want,
I still want…
 
My mind
Is.
 
Rest assured,
She doesn’t know
Wait, what is happening.
 
Oh, she was with us
There for a moment.
How was she yesterday?
 
I hear my daughter: She needs her own room.
I say: “Don't worry.”
I do though.
 
Because my mind
Is Ok.
 
I wait; in the promise of more time.
In a crowd. My heart beating
Blood through my ears.
 
Can I have my own room
You know?
My mind is ok.

My Execution

… and on the day of my execution

 I will wear a white pants suit 

… and you will witness each
Drop of blood, as it stains

Every bit of independence
Your sovereign

Stole
From me