Steady
Sometimes I step outside
our family river,
out of the flow
that sometimes floats me
from Monday to Thursday,
from January to June,
that sometimes pushes past my wading knees,
sometimes dunks me in an overwhelming joy,
sometimes dunks me long enough and hard enough
to make my hands scrabble along the bottom,
seeking purchase, direction, traction,
seeking up and out.
Sometimes I step outside
not to smoke a cigarette
or take a brisk walk
but to catch my breath,
to catch it like a firefly in a jar,
to hold it close
and look at its flash and burn,
to feel myself big and strong
for once
to feel that I could crush the glass
with my overcharged and pulsating hands,
these hands that pet my children’s heads,
that steer our car,
that feed hungry meters,
that stir sugar into strong cups of coffee,
that touch my husband’s soft ear lobe,
that shove themselves deep deep
into my jeans pockets
to steady themselves
steady themselves
steady.
Sometimes one shrinks
from the brink
of a gathering
of wonders.
Will I be warmed
by their flashing, collective light,
or torn asunder for lack
of the firmament needed
to hold my own candle steady
against and amidst
such bright gusts of self?
Early in the week
my door bell sounded, resounded
through the stone-surrounded apartment.
My allotted time with a mentor-writer
came and went.
I spent that golden hour
face down on the soft, rented bed,
enshrouded in knowing
I couldn’t bring my flame
to the shared banquet table –
it was too fragile,
I was too fragile.
Always building, shaping, loving
my own glow,
always bandaging, soothing, kissing
my deep hurt.
Always eyes wide,
the world feeling curt.
I was not ready
to join the show
and therefore
to know
if others
agreed
that yes, the time had come
to speak.
If others
would pull out a chair,
lay a plump worm in my beak.
I was not ready
to plant my seed
in a shared, fertile row
to see if it would grow.
I stared into the blanket,
into nothing.
Later I tracked down an afternoon coffee,
troubling off-duty waiters
who acted untroubled
despite their double shifts.
I lifted that dark drink to my lips
and told myself that this dose of bravery,
of caffeinated who-gives-a-shit,
would have to
it must
do the trick.
I licked my milk-caked spoon
and quieted the stubborn, nervous swoon,
the panic of showing this gorgeous group
one sliver of me.
The me
that is
part tree
part fairy
and part
what other people see.
What only they can see.
I can’t breathe through my nose anymore.
Is it stuffed up, or just damaged beyond repair?
It’s hard to say.
But I can smell with my mouth
and my eyes, with my memory of blue skies
and yellow cheerfully yellow daisies.
I know in my tippy toes
what scent fresh raspberries carry
above their bowl – it bowls me over still.
It is an odor of promise, of effort spent
in bending low and plucking,
of bees fucking,
of ruby jewels tucked away
and playing CUCKOO! with prying eyes
and protective leaves.
I forever know the wafts of roses
climbing my mother’s walls,
petals falling down and my soul lifting,
soaring up past the roof, POOF,
I am up there, even now,
resting, loafing on a cloud,
a perfect bed of perfume,
mom at her loom, dad who knows where,
I didn’t care.
So here I am, head jammed
between explosions of yellow and more yellow.
Who needs, what do they call it,
an offsetting color?
Ha! Yellow does it all, the petals
curl and unfurl, anchored at the center, yes,
but each one with a mind of its own.
And I KNOW what it smells like,
what it wants to be,
how it touches air,
how it pulls up water
to feed its shock of hair.
Sometimes I stick my nose
such as it is
deep into the blossom’s center.
I ask if I may enter,
I won’t stay long, won’t prolong
this ecstatsy, this face embrace,
the touch on my cheeks
that reeks of kindness
and pleasure
and acceptance.
Middle-Age Privilege
Outdoor cafe table.
Wine glasses full.
Local greens spilling out
of hubcap-size bowls.
Hair fluffy but well-bossed.
Glossy toes in mules.
Chunky watch.
Large overflowing bag
sitting like a well-behaved dog
at ankles-crossed feet.
Phone nearby, silent.
Best friend, all ears.
More wine.
No interrupting.
Lots of nodding.
Long spells of describing
running injuries,
lamenting having sold
the eliptical.
Lamenting being forced
to do yoga
until the knee
is better.
And if I stand too close
to the cold walls
of the quiet house,
if I let my cheek touch the paint,
my hand will reach out
to grab hold of the door frame,
old and substantial,
its task so simple and essential,
holding open the space
through which we walk
safely every day,
keeping the roof from pushing down
on our crowns.
If I do grab the frame,
press my skin to the inner skin of this house,
I can then let the tears come.
The house mothers me
while I let go of grief.
I could stand here for hours.
The walls and doorways,
the wood floors and windowsills,
the corbels and porches and many, many doors,
they've weathered much more
than my weakness,
my nudity,
my life.