Tangled Apron Strings

My belly button has been tender and sore all day.

On an another note (a coincidental one), this is Fiona's first day of Kindergarten. She has been a nervous wreck for weeks, but this morning, in her new uniform, she seemed OK. She was ready to jump that hurdle and get on with it. There was no angst in sight. Was she holding it all in, like she usually does? Yes, most likely.

Laura was in charge of getting her on the school bus. Fiona insisted on riding the bus on her first day. Mainly because her friend, our neighbor, was going to sit with her and hold her hand. Which she did.

I went to work, nervous for her, but confident that she would be safe. Man, was I ever wrong.

Look at her, getting on the bus. The safest place for a child, even though they are not equipped with seat belts or over protective mothers.

The bus was hit by a FREAKIN' CAR! On her first day. Police was called. The kids had to board a different bus, even though we told her to NEVER get on a bus if it wasn't bus #58. Her bus. Well, her bus is no longer safe.

Laura was going to meet her at the school. So she waited. And waited. And talked to the principal, because she's friendly. And waited.

The bus finally arrived, at 9:15 a.m. School starts at 8:55 a.m. Fiona seemed OK, but in a daze. The school greeters were offering doughnuts (because that's a healthful way to start your first day of school).

She made it through this day, despite the unforseen mishap and nerves and excessive sugar. She made three friends. Her only complaint was that her clothes are too slippery. She kept sliding off the bus seat.

And so, with this momentous milestone, I feel a shift. As though a part of me is slowly detaching. And along with this feeling of separation comes a mysterious pain in my belly button.

Six Years Old and Stressed

Fiona has a week off before she starts school. Real school. Kindergarten. In a public school, that is real and that is certified. Did you know that not all schools are certified to teach kindergarten? Don't get me started.

So Laura took her to visit her classroom and meet her teacher. It went well, from what I could tell, from the phone call right after. Which I picked up after one ring because I was dying to hear how it went.

We got the best teacher, whom we had requested. Only the best for our sweet Fiona. She has been very nervous about this upcoming transition. She has regressed. i.e. has peed on the floor and has thrown tantrums and has transformed into a child I barely recognize. Plus, she's become very itchy. Mosquitos? We don't know.

But now, she's on vacation for 5 days at her grandparents' farm. She LOVES it there. She loves her grandmother, who plays with her and focuses on her and is, frankly, the most perfect grandmother you could hope to get.

Plus, Fiona gets yogurt and M&Ms and pretty much whatever her stomach desires. She loves her grandfather also. Although she's afraid of him. Because he's large and has a large voice and growls sometimes, but he's sweet. She's just not used to the growling.

If they didn't live 3 freakin long hours away, we would ship both Fiona and Cyd over there on a regular basis, not because we don't want to hang out with our children, but because they have a better house and wide open spaces and dark skies and a creek and deer and beautiful sunsets. And they don't have neighbors that like to blow up things just to hear a loud noise. In fact, they don't have neighbors. Period.

A few hours after the drop-off, Laura's mom called saying that Fiona's itchiness had gotten worse. She had large, red welts all over her body. Betty (we call her Grandma Betty, a retired nurse and long-time family friend), came right over. This was an emergency. Fiona had hives. Stress-induced hives.

When I called the doctor on call, he was so very bored with my very boring and non-life-threatening medical emergency. This is very common with children, he said, in such a monotone voice I wanted to slap him through the phone. My heart was racing with worry and separation anxiety.  Well, it's not common with our perfect, happy, carefree, precious child. (Speaking of which, I was watching the movie "Precious" at the time, which heightened my maternal pangs.)

She was fine the next day.

And tomorrow is the first day of school. I wonder if I should just inject her with Benadryl now, to keep the hives at bay.

An Overflow

It feels like honey
Glueing
Dreams together
The stickiness
Sweet
In its confluence

I am full

Barren of the heaviness
Of ashes
That stiffle

As light swishes
And floods
Deep, precious spaces

Time
No longer ticks

But is spent
Instead
On living.

Tonight

Here's how it went:

1. Laura had yoga, so I was  a single mom for 2.15 hours.
2. Fiona didn't feel well and just wanted to sit on my lap and watch cartoons.
3. We turned on Bugs Bunny.
4. Cyd was grouchy and whinny and wanted lap time too.
5. Sammie, the kitten, put both children on edge with her razor sharp claws and unpredictable kitten craziness.
6. Cyd was unbelievably cranky and hit me when I told her not to eat Fiona's bracelet.
7. I firmly told her "no hitting" and she burst into tears.
8. I didn't even yell!
9. I took Cyd outside, in her element, and decided to move our tent, which we set up just for fun, and to air it out. I'm afraid it will kill the grass, so I moved it.
10. Came back inside because Cyd, unlike herself, was bored with outside
11. I found Fiona in very serious tears (screaming), "Why did you leave me?!!! I was so scared!!! Why?!! I thought you were LOST!!!!!! WHY??!!!!!!!!"
12. I am not exaggerating. Fiona was freaked out, crying REAL tears! "I thought you were LOST!"
13. I apologized 107 times and carried her around, as Cyd cried, for no apparent reason.
14. We decided to have a picnic.
15. Everyone chilled.
16. Fiona had a freak accident where she accidently stuck the end of her very sharp headband into her ear.
17. Screaming ensued.
18. I worried she may have damaged her ear drum.
19. Ice cream made it better.
20. Took Cyd to bed 15 minutes early. She fell asleep right away, after our little lulaby routine, which, I admit, I cut short.
21. Fiona sat on my lap, wrapped in a blanket even though it's 90 degrees, and watched a Tom and Jerry cartoon.
22. Her forehead felt hot.
23. I kissed her compulsively.
24. Laura came home.

There's more, but I'm exhausted. Sammie is sitting on the arm of our chair, purring. Laura is reading Fiona a story, and Cyd is sleeping.

I'm worried about Fiona. Because this is what I do.

Finally, the First Tooth!

My baby lost her first tooth today. Finally, the loose tooth saga is over!

That thing has been loose for a century and a half. Her mature tooth is almost fully grown behind it. We were so excited! She saw the blood and smiled instead of screamed. We've had at least a couple of firsts tonight. Welcome to our house, Ms. Tooth Fairy. Fiona wanted to warn you that we have wood floors, so be careful about splinters.

Bonfire

Doesn't this fire look like a giraffe? Coincidence? I don't think so.

The End of Summer

We've tried to pack in a lot of summer fun this weekend, since it's our last weekend before school starts. We went to the zoo yesterday, which is fun in theory. We brought the stroller, mainly to keep Cyd contained. God knows she would prefer to walk than ride, unlike her sister Fiona, who (in her non-sensible shoes), wanted to ride instead of walk. She we're trying to corale a 1-year-old in a very crowded zoo, and push a heavy almost-6-year-old in a stroller. There was some whining (me) and some screaming and kicking (Cyd, refusing to sit in above mentioned stroller). But there was also some oohing and aahing and some river boat riding and some giraffe feeding. All in all, we had us some summer fun.

Today, we went to Fox Island, a local park with a nice lake for swimming. Cyd still clings furiously when around water, but enjoyed playing in the sand.  Look at this happy little family:

We were out of swimmer diapers, so within 2 minutes in the water Cyd's freak of a diaper grew to such an unnatural size that she looked deformed. So, because I cannot have my sweet, sweet little Cyd looking deformed, I took her diaper off and noticed it has some crazy gel inside the material of the diaper. Pampers, what the hell are you doing to your diapers?  I wish we were hip enough to have our babies in cloth diapers.

Cyd walked around, sans diaper, with her cover up, happy as a clam to be 10 pounds lighter when lo and behold, she squats and poops. Did we bring another diaper? No.

After an emergency trip to the bathroom (I will spare you the disgusting details), we went back into the lake to watch Fiona's synchronized swimming. She's very talented.

Tonight, we're having a bonfire to close the weekend. Hot dogs (Kosher, at least) and maybe smores. And a little wine for the adults who have had to put up with all this summer fun.

Bye-Bye Cable

We cancelled cable. It's been a long time coming. We don't watch it. Well, except for the Food network and Jon Stewart. I miss Jon Stewart. I love that man. He is the personification of hilarious brilliance. Now, I have to get my news solely from NPR. And they're not as funny. Though they have better accents.

It's amazing how little we miss it. Laura defintely doesn't miss it, mainly because she is more evolved and is whole without needing needless broadcast television blather to mend or fill or satiate. This is one of the reasons I love and respect her.

I, on the other hand, got attached to a few programs, but with two kids to run after, frankly, who has the time? Can my mind find its drug elsewhere? Does it still need this numbing? Not really.

Plus, I think I'm saving about 48 minutes a day not having channels to flip through. 48 very precious minutes to play Elefun with Fiona and her friend. We had so much fun tonight, I forgot to take pictures. Damn that living in the moment thing!

What we have, though, is Netflix and its companion, Roku. We get our movies, our hip TV shows, our kids programming, delivered to our TV whenever we want. It's freakin' fantastic. And freeing.

But mostly, we have quiet, and Go-Fish, and laughing, and reading Beverly Cleary to Fiona, and singing "Do Do, L'enfant Do" to Cyd, with an extra verse, because we have extra time. And we get extra smiles and twice the giggles. This is what time gives.

It's a lot better than anything on cable.

Sorry, Jon. But please know I still love you.

Pride

So we went to Pride Fest this weekend in an effort to remain part of the community, and because we don't get out much. It was different this year. We got there late (i.e. after 6pm), which meant we had to pay a cover charge of $10. What? You have to pay to be gay?

We're towing the two kids with us, the stroller is blocking the way of the fabulous, glittery gay men trying to get through, and here we are, two very mainstream lesbians with children, entering the pride fest tent and being completely out of place. Why? Because we are 1. Not single lesbians looking for a date; 2. Not young punk rock tatooed lesbians with guitars and killer hair cuts; 3. Not gay men; 4. Not pierced; 5. Have children in tow. 6. There's more.

But we are all the same. And it felt good to be there.

Though I so yearned to chop my hair off and get a tattoo or a piercing of some sort. But let's be realistic, I can't do short hair.

Fiona got her rainbow slushie and was happy. Cyd was loved by everyone, including the slushie lady (who gave her a tiny strawberry slushie sample) because, well, I believe she is magical (Cyd, not the slushie lady).


I watched my peeps, my family, and felt grateful for who we are. Despite our lack of piercings and purple hair, we are happy. And full of love and more.

So we left to go to the splash pad for even more fun. As the transvestite boy/girl in his white bikini (with the essential skirt) splashed around with unabashed glee, I thought, good for you, for being you. For being so full of life and happy. And so confident in your self-defined body. And I was thankful that she could be there with all of us and be safe and free. I don't think it could have happened so gracefully any other time. I wanted to talk to her about what it feels like to be so comfortable in your skin. And the irony of gender.

Really, I wanted to stare. I wanted to see if (s)he had surgery. I wanted to watch him (her!) with her boyfriend. I wanted to understand.

I wanted to know how there could be such joy, which feels much more like sadness.

Blogs

I've become addicted to the so called "mommy blogs". Small things, minivans, suburban musings, uncensored. I feel so connected to them. Every pulse of my life is touched by my family, my children, my partner, my home. My facebook status is usually about the children, or food, or home. I am seldom inspired by work. Though I enjoy parts of it. The people, the ideas, the brain waves, even the numbers. But I could live without the work. I could never live without my people. Many of the bloggers I read are stay at home moms. I am especially addicted to "Enjoying the Small Things", written by a mom with a 3-year-old and a downs baby. That baby sucks me in. Her almond eyes and beautiful face often makes me shed tears. Happy ones.

(Photo by Kelle Hampton, from her blog "Enjoying the Small Things".)
Usually these blogs include photographs of the people involved. Many of these blogger moms are photographers, some professional, others amateur.
We are all connected by this vast and wonderful common ground.

Parenting 100001

I've had to re-analyze our parenting strategies since Cyd has come into our lives. She personifies the perfection of instinct and honesty. She is. She never pretends to be. She just is. Because she is still a baby, so fresh and new, her instincts are primitive. If she is angry, she will strike out. If she doesn't want to walk, she will throw herself on the ground. When she is done with a toy, or a book, or anything, she will just throw it on the floor and walks away. When she wants to go, she runs. Also, when she feels slighted or angry, she will give you what we have come to refer as "the eyes." They're squinty and mad.

Her instincts are also sweet and endearing. She learned to kiss early. She kisses her mommies easily. She kisses Fiona compulsively. She kisses her dolls. She kisses pictures of babies and animals in books. She gives the most honest, powerful hugs of any baby on the block. Her tenderness fills me with such love. She is loving. Her heart overflows innately. She is pure.

That being said, she is very spirited. This is a gentle way of saying she can be a handful. She doesn't aim to please, as some children do. She is just an outpouring of raw self and energy. In a nutshell, she doesn't "listen". She doesn't come when you ask her to come. In fact, she often runs the other way. She is going through a phase of refusing to sit in her chair for dinner (or lunch, or breakfast), of taking her diaper off when it becomes accessible, of hitting her sweet, sweet, sister for no apparent reason. She has issues.

As a parent, this is unacceptable. We used the "naughty chair" with Fiona when she did not obey. This worked well. She had to sit in the corner, on our little elephant bench. She cried. I wrung my hands, nervously, as the minutes ticked, but Fiona learned how to do what we wanted. She was easily tamed.

Cyd is a different story. She will cry on the so called "naughty chair". She even has the nerve to get off the chair (Fiona would never have even thought of trying that.) But this form of punishment hasn't worked so far. Cyd is still the free spirit, who ignores her parents' requests if there is something more interesting to do.

So I got to thinking. And with thinking comes researching.

And I found this: "Unconditional Parenting", by Alfie Kohn. http://www.alfiekohn.org/up/index.html
I haven't read the whole book yet, but the premise is that punishment (time out) and rewards (praise) are not beneficial. And can be detrimental. Children need to know you love them unconditionally, even when they're throwing a tantrum or not acting as you would prefer. They are not objects we can manipulate. They are not meant to be tamed (OK, so we've made some mistakes.) We need to use reason and love instead.

I am starting to use this general idea with Cyd (and Fiona too) and there has been a shift. The behavior hasn't changed yet, with Cyd, but there has been a lot fewer tears. It's OK if she doesn't come when I call her so I can change her diaper. I get her and kiss her and she is happy. Before, I would reprimend her for not listening and she would throw a fit and be recalcitrant as I changed her diaper. With this new attitude that it's OK, that I love her unconditionally, she is happy and calm. The feet kicking and shrieks have been replaced by smiles and giggles. She must sense that she has regained the power that is inherently hers.

My love for both of my daughters has always been unconditional. But a piece of me has tried to mold them into what I think they need to be. This is selfish and unfair. They are what they are. All I can ask of them is to be true.

I like this theory. I will expand on this once I actually read the book.

Home

There are simple pleasures
Like the disheveled naked chef
Carving avocados
Drenched in lime and dancing
In cilantro

The spooning
Of our limbs just before the end
Of sleep

The leisure
Of slow, Sunday
French onion soup
Simmered and touched
With a sprinkling
Of Chardonnay
And freshly chopped
Garden parsley

After 60 Minutes,
Six Feet Under
And sex
On the couch.

Love

Penetrating
Sensibly
Her eyes are throbbing
Deep to the marrow of me

My hands are slick
With longing
I wonder how she doesn't die
From the succulence

Her body slinks
A careful curve
Twisting to capture
The girth
Of our mingling breath

Wine and wasabi
Kiss
The memory of chocolate
Lava
Swimming in our veins
And just then
As the smile sinks to a wink
I think
Of the first word
Between us.

Unanswered

Compromisingly brash
And brilliant
She owns the air
Around us

With the laughter
Of her
Rummaging mind
She questions quickly

Hovering just above

To catch the winks
And nods
Of awe
Not to mention
The smallness
Of our silence

As the graceful
Wrinkle
Of her question
Remains.

When Truth Is

I aim for tolerance and love. Yet I understand the lack of. I understand when some people fight for their beliefs even if their beliefs are not my own. Even if they're fighting to keep minorities from getting the same benefits (rights) as others. I understand them because being on the other side of the proverbial fence, I am struggling just as they are. I am struggling to make peace, and to understand. We are all the same. I sometimes think less of them and see the parallel. It bugs me.

We are all the same.

In 7th grade, we were asked to choose a controversial topic and pick a side we were passionate about. I chose illegal immigration. I suppose I was drawn to the topic because I felt like a French kid on American soil, even though I was legal. My stance was yes.

I belong here. They belong here. No one is illegal. It is not something a human being can be.

I'll never forget this moment. Our teacher came around to each of us to get our topic and our position on it. When I told him I thought illegal immigrants should be given a chance, the girl next to me said something to the effect of "Why? They're not allowed to be here?"

It seemed obvious to me that I was right. I felt it as a truth. The teacher said, sharply, "Let her talk". I was, at that tender moment, given the right to speak what I believed was true, in my own words, from my own mind. I was certain of it in my heart. And from the understanding in my teacher's eyes, my certainly was validated, solidified.

This shaped me. Mainly, because it was important and I had verbalized it, despite what I believed was the societal consensus. It was mine and it was innate. I didn't run it by my parents. I was sure of it all on my own. And it was true. Proven, in part, by the "A" I received. But, mainly, from the extra something I didn't quite understand. Yet.

Memory of Paris

I have crisp, happy memories
Of strolls in the streets of Paris
All six of us
Bound and scattered
Hand in hand
Sometimes I ran ahead
Momentary freedom
And turned back
Unsure of what I felt

Separate

We walked
To our favorite restaurant
It must have been Asian
Because they served us
Chips made of air
And seafood
That magically melted
In my mouth

I always wanted more

I have no recollection
Of anything else besides
The air
And the happiness
Of Being
A part.

Liquidity

It has become obvious
There is a line
between us
A maze
We can't quite coordinate
Between co-friends
And fear

It is the strangest
Most deafening
Uncertainty
I have ever felt
And I aim
To love
Always.

Blackstone

There was a gritty pleasure
Brewing,
Lips thirsty
For the mouth
Of black rock
Beneath
Bones

Crisp and sober
She slipped
Within
Soft and precise
Like a butterfly to nectar

The etchings of my palm
Swerved.

Sylvia Plath

We ache for the complex
Combinations
Of her pauses
And the sighs of eyes
Silent in their verse
Glimmering with insolence
Or guesses incapable
Of knowing
The difference between ashes and
Death
And what comes
Before

The ordinary
Was instructed
Into our malleable minds
Like the hum of a stalker
Silent in its terror
She is laughing at us.

Manic

I wanted to live a normal life
Without the loss of breath and heart
But there is too much
Thirst
Clutching
The brittle skin
Of me

Each tearing
Sticks to my ribs
Shredding the tissue
Lining
Of my thoughts

Even the cats
Stare at me
As though I am plural
Ripped
Into a different direction.

Scratched

But I liked being sick
In the south
Of France, loved
Even after I'd stolen
Five francs to buy a frozen
Milkyway after school, and friends
Were water to wet
The hard skin
Enveloping my angst

I wanted to be a stone
To kill
The cancer flaring
In my mammie's lungs
But there were always
Pigeons

With darting eyes
And sharp claws
To doubt

The balcony
Was too high
The air too thin
To catch
Falls after dinner.

I always thought I knew
The white rain I bathed in, soft
Soapy words from the AM radio
At one o'clock
In the morning.

Circle

She lives to nibble
At the core
Of sharp, polished curves

Each bite,
Is a morsel of soft lust,
First fissures
And ample harvest moons

Surprising revelations
Suck
At the center
Of her

Like a cliche
Wet,
Deep
In the dark crevice
Of its cave

The nimble rummaging
Becomes desperate
For the hearty bite
Of a corner.

Why do I keep using the word "drench"? I am drenched with that word.

Quantum Thoughts

The unknown
Is opening a piece of me
A potential rising
Just right
Of my left brain

I ignored the ripples
In philosophy class
Consumed instead with matter
And letters

That chair exists
I am a person

But now
My incertainty fills
The balloon of doubt
Swelling
With a nihilistic knowledge
I/it can barely contain

There are facts,
Swimming
Bursting
In unproven absolutes

I am drenched
With the possibility
Of nothingness.

Missing

The grief is sticky
Clinging to my bones and blood

There is no simile left
It is nothing
That has ever existed
Inside of me

What’s wrong?
She asks

Nothing

My mother is dead

The words are stuck
In the tendrils
Beneath my voice

I am alone

As never before
Barren of that nebulous thing
She can no longer give

No words are worthy
Of this

I am missing.

Inside

My blood flows sometimes
Like raw silk
Soft and crunchy,
Punctually throbbing

A thunderstorm
Pink with dusk
Slurred
With a swirling of wine

But it is more today
Like a snowball
Of flowers
And salt
Sifted soft

To make it crumble
And lack.

Cyd

Twirling,
Pink and perfect,
You slipped
Into our world

Drenched
With hope
And wings
You filled our circle
Full

With the purity
Of presence
You clung
To what is yours

Serenity and breath
And this family
Of four.

Less Than

Who am I
If only a French kid
With a few scrapes and recipes
For brioche
And ratatouille

Reality slinks
Deep
Like a gulp of glass
Shattered,

I am only me
A cliché
Admitedly

Shirking
The ordinary
By the marshy sliver
Of my left brain
Sometimes absent
Of succulence
And/or.

Demographic

Living in italics
In between
Cogent unsaid words

Where is my column
Net or gross

Stapled

In between

The slanted
Stupid
Sharp and brilliant

With a touch or a syllable
I could shape this world

Slightly

Instead I am drowning
In projections
Drenched
In guesses
Masquerading
As trends

We cannot predict the future

As 8 to 5 revolves
We pretend to understand
Numbers
And how they define bodies and minds

I am left only
With this.

Symphony

I get up in the middle of night
To count her breaths
My hand on her back
A slice of fear

And I am thankful
Every time

I feel

The movement
And smile
Of her blood
Pumping.

Multi Media

If I could draw with words
I would sketch an empty bookshelf
Embarrassed
By its lack
I would write Wet Wet
With the thickest, blackest ink

And drench the linen, luscious
Spines of sentences
With lead letters

The wooden shelves would throb
With the weight
Of consonants

I would draw the dusty hand
Of a lonely L
That has seldom been held
The waiting
Thick
On its neck

I would fill its hollow frame
With vowels
To make it
Feel.

Ordinary Dread

There is dust
On the observation deck
A flagrant symbol
Of the missing muse

Not to mention
The smashed mosquito
Sticking to the sweat
Of my neck

Alive and flailing

Like this heart
Bulging, hopeful,
Beating,
Despite the
Sting.

The Beginning of Dementia

Her eyes were distant
But there was enough real in her
To touch me
As she wandered in her mind

My father was brewing, frantic
French
Onion soup

But she no longer understood dinner

He was sweating
Like the onions

Sure, I’ll open the wine
I stole a sip straight from the bottle
Like a boy/girl
Sand
Sifted

In the bathroom
She wanted me to help her
Our roles reversed

Of course,
I expected this

But when she covered her eyes
And cried
The child in me
Could not
Untangle her
Tears

I am barely a person.

Ash

His white dress
Shirt
Is suspiciously
Wrinkled

He’s been sleeping
In his Lexus
On his Lunch break
At 10:17 a.m.

He pretends to stand
Like Janis Joplin
Lovely and disheveled
His thoughts pace in circles
And I can feel
The liquid
Of his swaying

The drowsy influence
Of his bones

Oh, ache is so simple

But it’s more like absence,
Not finding enough human
Inside.

Alter

I enjoy
What makes me
Into what I am not

The fluids touch my synapses
Controlling the beat of my blood
Into neat lithe lines of life

My body is wringing
With the satisfaction
Of being

As I sip this morsel
Of alteration
My brain throbs
And with a touch
The spasms
Calm
And thoughts
Melt
Into this.

It’s okay
To be who I am
The sweat and shame
Becomes me

When did I become
A portion of a person
The doubt and perception
Shapes
And wrings my soul dry

I stood by the window
Waiting for my parents to come home

As they shopped
Three
Four
Five?
Hours

And my siblings played
indifferent

I stood

Stuck to the window
Overlooking the driveway
Fear and loneliness
Pulsing
Through my nine year old veins

Where does it begin?

The abandonment
And loss of self

This is how confidence
Breaks
I think
Because I never knew
For sure
They would come back.

Beauty

I think it was a man’s
Shirt
Casually hugging your female frame
Light as a parachute
In its throes
Of flight

The skin of your neck
Skinny and taunt
Was a clean, soft
Blade
Ripping
Through the fabric

An unbuttoned
glimpse
A gift

I ogled and felt no guilt
In my desire

On the Rocks

I wanted to drink
Whiskey
Wishing for the eroticism
Of elegant,
Trembling hands
clasped around
Crystal
Desperate for the once familiar
Feminine bestiality
Of my brain,

But every sip quenched
Crucial, required words
Like an amber venom of mediocrity
I felt

The lift of cliché

Fill me empty

And I let it sink
Hoping to drink
Myself out
Of the hollow
Silence of this block
And back
Into the comfortable stability
Of sentence
Structure.

Scalding Inspiration

My eyes feel the center of my brain
Ever since I lost the substance
Softly
Circling my skull

I do not feel blood
Unless it is freed

And when I spin
I seldom
Come Back
To the routine
Heaviness
Of myself

Missing

I have lost
The soft
Scent of my mother
Somewhere under the earth
of Southern France
Silent
And safe
I am left
To carry this grief

The loss
Is hard and heavy
In its silence

She would have smiled
At the soft weight
Of her own paradox

I miss most
The tenderness
Melting from the crisp blue grey
Of her eyes
Equivalent to a touch
Though surprisingly warmer
And the powdery, soft coolness of her face
And neck
The scent
Of Lavender
Sifted

She never raised
Her voice
Ever
But I hear it now

Singing.

Lunch

This is more than the wringing
Of hands
There is napkin shredding
And fork shuffling
And compulsive drinking
Of ice
Water
With lemon

Sitting with semi strangers
Men mostly
And I
Pretend to be
Who I am
On the phone

Conversation is mostly about them
Tell me this
That
About you
This is how conversation works
In this tiny little world of theirs

I dread
The reversal
When they ask about me

Don’t

My demeanor must scream it
The tense bones
And sweat

I am not theirs
To know.

Half of us are English majors
Forced to pound numbers
Into soft curves
Searching for shares
Of belonging
Here.

My Mother's Words

I am reading her
Manuscript
And every word
Is a slight sliver
of her

The depth and even
The softness of her touch
Is in that ink

I idolize
The page numbers
Hand
written
From her own

And the few notes
In the margins
Are remnants
Of her thoughts
Another layer
To complete the hidden
Grappling
Part of her.

She is with me almost
Completely
Now.

Raskolnikov

I will always remember
the sweetness
of his psychosis

the way he paced
on the page
like a tangled string in a storm

I craved the keen understanding
of misery and darkness
shattered skulls
constantly aching from the overflow

I thought daily about licking
the ink from the print
of his voice
to taste the truth of his brain
to know
what it meant to be truly
mindful

I was sixteen
Advanced Placement English
and in love
with aberrations
and the lapse of social constraints
torn
by the thrill of thorns
words and hands
and the insane perfection of their places
in sentences and skin

my lust was shameless and new
a crime unpunished
every swelter justified by the infringement
of my youth
and the vodka in my veins
and yes,
I became a person
then.

Gossip

If a whisper
Is overheard
It is about the one on the fringe

I hear the shadow
Followed by the sizzle

And I am sad with its silence
Suffocated by the drip
Drip
drip
Of salacious insecurity

Borne out of boredom,

fear

Mixed with a slick desire
To be more
Than what is less

The slushing sound of vowels
Swimming and shushing in the hallway
Drown
The buzz
Of my computer conversation

I am alone here