Me Lately

(Note our anthology on the sloven's desk.)

I used to be an avid writer of poetry, but then life came knocking with brass knuckles and I've been too busy seeing stars to write since. I rejected it really. All things feeling. All things me. I found no passion, no point. I'm still not sure these things exist, but I feel cheap always posting poems from a former life. Why not something now?

Do you want to see who I am? Shall I lift the hem of my skirts and reveal a bony ankle?

I'm not well, and I'm not good, but I'm still here. And this is me lately...

I'm History
The looking glass spans ages
spinning them together a soft cotton nest
of spider thread for precious eggs
I see in my first wrinkles
tall men who grew small and feed grasses,
discovered worlds now ancient.
It comes of drinking too much life
and tasting too much death
and watching it all fall to the floor
curling in on itself like a gestating child
my experiences pack themselves in
while no one is watching
rolling and rolling around as the face in the glass
follows footsteps
into the sinking abyss of time.
11-12-05

Turn, Turn
Why make of me a mother
when I am only good at reading
when I am only good at living in splashes of black ink?
& hiding myself away with mistakes
in shoeboxes under the bed?

Why make of me a mother
when I've taken precious form
when I've hand-picked the wire to set it on?
& tempted fates thrice since
so often I can smell winter?

Why make of me a child
when my mother is part of forever
when I don't know submission or sacrifice even now?
& I have children of my own
heaven I can never earn?

Why make of me a child
when I want myself to myself
when Sundays are for sleeping in or eating with long spoons?
& painting breathless pictures
with invisible viscid fluids?

Why make of me an anomaly
when the treasure was reason
when at last the plane of age made puzzle pieces fit?
& chairs grew small enough
for bigger backs to sit?

Why make of me an anomaly
when I finally had an excuse
when at last I had all the sacred cheese of life I could handle
& all I ever really wanted
was to be a mother?
11-12-05

Fallen
You will go in the grey of the morning
I will sleep in and not miss you
I know I am supposed to
I don't understand love
anymore than a firefly in May
it must be that I've arrived
and e'er will take Mother's advice
and stop sailing paper ships in gutters after rain
The floor needs sweeping and i know it
it waits with dishes and laundry and lesson plans...
I chose it all.
And you.
Without any of it I lose my way
and find it
and the missing
at the rattle of the doorknob.
11-12-05

Poppies
I'm living in the shadow
telling everyone within earshot about the Soylent Green
unspeakable things unseen by Mr. Clean
everyone's wearing Hearos
I know the noise is a train a foot away
sending railroad spikes flying
while hearts are prone
a megaphone has no place at the philharmonic
even though half the art lovers are missing
Everyone has more sense than me
when they're sane with a compartmentalization
I can't seem to master
it's the droning
and the humming
and the wailing
keeping me from getting precious sleep.
11-12-05

These took approximately half an hour to pen. It was 2 or so in the A.M. and I lay on the carpet listening to the deep sleeping breath of my tiny daughter in the bed above me. I only remember being tired. Reading them now, I find myself crying.

Poetry is so much cheaper than going to a shrink.