Rituals

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the day is a series of catchphrases

 

the sun rises and falls 

 

casts the same judging glare 

through her living room window

 

she’s forgotten what the air feels like

when it catches and holds in her throat

like all of the words she’d tossed into 

a jar before she dared to try them on for size

 

somewhere her daughter 

cries in unpredictable patterns 

quiet, loud, a siren’s wail

 

barely breathing but never more alive

 

life thrums at the edges of her doorstep

 

she counts the crows huddled 

along the power lines

and steps back inside

connections

mother folds the rug back 
while father sweeps

mother stirs the pot 
while father fixates
on a crack in the ceiling

 anything but the way
my shoulders jackhammer
while i am begging him
in some devastated tongue

 to see me in some light, any light

they say a mother’s love knows no bounds
but what happens when your own mother
is so broken she cannot lift a hand
to see the way it looks so much like your own?

i am screaming with my mouth shut
and i’ve run out of bandages
to keep my bones from breaking
in one fragile swoop like some cheap trinket

i am grasping at straws made of sand
they turn to dust in my grasp
like this mirage that tries to
tell me i have a family

i kneel behind my son in damp grass
wrap both hands around his waist
point at whatever wonder the day is bringing

and i think: i’ve done this, haven’t i?
i’ve been on the other side of this
hands around my waist, so small
somewhere in the fog of another life.

Dear Beautiful Boy,

 

I swear I dreamed you up and

That you are really made of starlight.

When you sleep I reach out and connect our

Constellations, just to be sure there are no kinks.

 

I measure the sharpness of your face and

Wonder if you will be the opposite of me:

A force, a light that others are drawn to like

I am drawn to you. Will you believe in God?

You can believe in anything you want to.

 

My love for you will never be measured

By your accomplishments.

 

I am your Mama, Beautiful boy,

long hair or short, ink on your skin,

a painted face, a red dress, on sunny days

and in a rainstorm.

 

Show me your teeth and your fists

And I promise, I’m your Mama then, too,

Still checking our connections.

 

There is no conditional love here.

 

all that we cannot change

(http://themetapicture.com/these-pictures-are-what-dreams-are-made-of/)

my son chases sunrays that filter in and

dance across our living room floor,

and my heart is heavy.

 

in all those late-night conversations

let’s have a child, let’s move mountains, create miracles

there was a should we? that lingered on my husband’s lips,

always.

 

life, I said. it happens all around us. it stops for nothing.

not even for the darkest of days.

we still love, we still create.

 

we chase sunrays,

shape happiness with shaking hands

 

drive cars and drink wine and laugh

and laugh and laugh

 

and then we cry for all that we cannot change.

 

but then we sigh, take another sip, compose ourselves.

hug our children and whisper I love you and watch

our favorite television shows and drown out all the badness.

 

I touch my son’s cheek

I dream of his future

still, I regret nothing.

 

Irrational Being

(http://favim.com/image/1980467/)

she wakes to lavender
pooling in all her fleshy,
sorry nooks.

she had the dream
of all dreams last night:

staring through a dirty wine glass
like a drunken fortune teller
she saw life as it could be
by the softening glow of
holiday lights in city summer.

somewhere far from here
for the first time
she was good enough.

Rosemary

(http://imgfave.com/search/surreal%20picture%20woman%20beautiful%20art)

what if she disappeared
quick and clean as a rainstorm

would you still love her when
she is little more than earth?

perfume stale on a necktie
rosemary and basil fat in the kitchen

these things aren’t tangible
like her hands on your mouth

wheeling through the seasons
with the windows rolled up
isn’t really living, she told you

four arms, four legs
two hearts, one home
these are the roots of us

waste the days on fleeting laughter
on the way she looks at the end of the night

put on your best suit and
go puddle jumping

it won’t matter like
the way she smiles in the rain

if she wants snow in July
disembowel the Egyptian cotton pillowcases

tear down the silk curtains and
she’s queen for a day

bask in the way she ties a
perfect knot around the
neck you kiss when you’re sorry

the way she glides across the
living room and calls on the help

because when she’s gone
when she’s really, truly a memory

you won’t ache for things,
for money well spent, for her rosemary

instead you’ll keep her best in the
all of the jeweled spontaneity

in the way her body felt
so light in its blissful carelessness

the grower

(http://jeannie2278.pixnet.net/blog/post/11414616)

it was spring and

my mind had withered to

hydrangea petals

all blue

twig fingers

scaling corners

of all the things

they could not touch.

 

i tried to say all

of where i’d been but

the earth pulled

at my elbows

and knees like

silk kite strings i

struggled to unravel

from around glass ankles.

 

taking flight was

a greenhouse pipe dream

i’d hidden in the

brightest pot

before i

placed petals where

my eyes used to be

and one behind my ear.

 

let them come, i thought

the grieving

chrysanthemums

might make

them think

of me

struggling to grow myself

somewhere out there.

Fullest

(http://www.pinterest.com/missbuhle/i-m-a-g-e-s/)

I have never

been more aware

that we are dying than when

my body came full as a

banquet – there are

new roots that run from

every fingertip I am

swollen, full and only

thriving, easy even on

my own green eyes

in the bedroom mirror

and my whole self is

a terrified power house,

I have never tried so

hard to be alive now I

can feel it in my blood

in how my husband

cups our whole world in

his hands just beneath

my paper skin I lay my

own hands on our future,

I am shifting, busy living

to the fullest, truly.

girl

(http://favim.com/image/1299/)

 

girl headed

down south

to forget

girl headed down south

with a crushed pack

of cigarettes

and a warm bottle

of water from her

mother’s kitchen tap

 

girl used to

catch fireflies

with those hands

girl used to quiet

laughter with those hands

now they’re

soft as the

floorboards

in her uncle’s bedroom

 

girl thumbs it

halfway to

nowhere

shoulder to

shoulder

with somebody

in the hot

cab of a pickup

truck

 

girl lets

her eyes close

for a moment

for an hour

girl is still while his

hand swears in

on her thigh

she pays him

in her sleep

 

girl is smoking

her last cigarette

on a park bench

girl is waving goodbye

to him

her uncle’s bedroom floor

the last drop from

mother’s kitchen tap

the stale life on her tongue

Lily Eyes

(http://designyoutrust.com/2013/04/the-surreal-photography-of-joel-robinson/)

i’ve been packed in some

u n g o d l y   earth

like all of the dead i know

we are molding daisies

with our hands

 

her chest is

two perfect rosebuds

.         i close my lily eyes

perfume

leaves and cold rain

 

if i reach my branches

.                              a little
to the left

there are earth worms

digging their way up.

 

i try to dance with them

.         we twist freely in the dark

falling in rhythm with the forest

suddenly

i’m blooming like my grandmother’s garden