March 3rd
My cat mimicks the birds outside, chirping from my bedroom window. The sound of a whisk scraping a stainless bowl drifts up from the kitchen. I opt to swallow caffeine, but I don’t feel awake. Yesterday, I looked at my naked body in the mirror and noticed how my curves resemble a goddess mother. I mastered headstands this winter, as my skin became pale. Do you give up shaving your legs when no one sees them? My thoughts are interrupted. She says “I love you, momma” and “you’re so beautiful”, then rushes back to the kitchen to finish the pancakes. Chocolate chip. I’m beginning to believe her.
Mortality revealed
I am convinced. There are voices in our lives that speak words echoing for days, bouncing off the walls of ourselves, rubbing our edges soft, their truths so deep and wide the oceans can not hold them. Soft piercing voices that cut into the primitive core of ourselves and lift us up into the glacial heights of our possibility. The words will be surprising, and aching, and delightful in their purity. And if we’re lucky, they will linger. And when they pass onto the other dimensions we can’t see, their vacancy will be profound. The sheer reality that Mary Oliver will never write another poem… her voice is silenced forever by the grave… how painful is this mortal life! How I wish it’s end was not so permanent! I swallow this whiskey and inhale breath tonight with the keen reminder that these moments are numbered. And no thing is sure, beyond the now. Perhaps I’ll kneel tonight and ask the heavens for some small comfort. Mortality will accompany me to my empty bed, remaining cold and terrifying, on the other side.
Lover #7
This one is a long time coming. You see, he offered me a rather attractive mask to wear. It was specially made for me. He gave me a new name and we walked together into a complete fantasy. I’ve hesitated to write about this chapter because it has been too raw, too real. Because I’m still having the dreams. I dove deep into this imaginary life and it was truly intoxicating. At the time, I felt alive and loved and full of passion. But not that it’s over, I see the thin grey veil that was hanging over me. An illusion of joy. The cloying weight of personal sacrifice without reciprocal affection. I heard the words I wanted to hear and forgave so easily. How I bent and folded myself for him! I creased my very heart.
The sun came out this summer and I felt the earth move. The illusion had grown hazy and dull; my reality was becoming brighter and more beautiful. It was no question which direction I needed to turn. I evolved. The mask was no longer desired. It wasn’t lovely anymore either. I was more beautiful without it. And without him.
Closure
Silent hallways, rustling papers and erasers scratching, a deep breath, the long exhale, clicking calculator keys. An occasional student says “thank you” or “have a good break”, always in a whisper. I quietly echo my “thanks, you too”, I learned most of their names. Many I will not see again, except in passing across the quad. I will not know if what I sought to teach them will be helpful in the future. Or if my class is remembered with disdain or fondness. Such is the semester’s end. This is a strange closure
centripetal force
spin, we circle round
shifting between stale orbits
seeking our own sun
“The crickets felt it was their duty to warn everybody that summertime cannot last forever. Even on the most beautiful days in the whole year – the days when summer is changing into fall – the crickets spread the rumor of sadness and change…‘Summer is over and gone,’ repeated the crickets. ‘How many nights till frost?’ sang the crickets. ‘Good-bye, summer, good-bye, good-bye!’”
“Charlotte’s Web”, E. B. White
we fall into patterns
Monday thru Friday
there are meetings and emails and commutes
I try to make it to yoga
I pour a glass of wine while cooking dinner
I forget breakfast
and my laundry from Wednesday is still in the dryer
repeat, spin, load the dishwasher
meetings and deadlines
good mornings with photocopies
she has a pattern of getting annoyed when she feels slighted
he calls me sunshine
the pattern of turning my keys in my hands
or losing them in the pockets of my bag
endless dishes and cat hair
a pile of newspapers stacked near the door
still wrapped in their delivery bags
because who has time to read the Post
when I’m always always rushing
then I sit for a while on Friday
and it takes too much energy
to imagine getting up
to unfold the paper
to learn the sky is still falling
people are still cruel
and everyone has opinions
these patterns of hurricanes blowing west
less destructive than our judgement of each other
Monday thru Friday
I’ve marched thru another week
the patterns of summer replaced
with a new semester’s gravity
and the promise of autumn
In memoriam, Senator
Senator McCain, I wish you had not left us
there was a small ray of hope and decency
that you carried into the hallowed halls of the dusty senate
the bitch cancer snuffed out your candle
tonight I wonder about our future as Americans
when NFL protests and corrupt lawyers clog the headlines
and the voices of honesty and integrity seem the still small voices
of each day perhaps the Washington Post
will put the Senator’s death on the front page tomorrow
I imagine them scrambling to change to layout tonight
a few miles from me, quickly, deftly, the newsroom responds
life has happened, they will memorialize him
He has asked Obama and Bush to give his eulogies
and Trump won’t be invited
what on earth does this say to our children
how can I possibly explain this orangutan and his bloated posturing
I sigh, and offer my grief to the ether
this life shall pass, his legacy of integrity and honesty will endure
I gave you my vote years ago
I came to disagree with you
I always respected you
May you rest in peace, Senator
we are a better nation for knowing you
because you served us
