I, Too

like shiva in his ring of fire

I, too, with my four arms poised

balanced on one flat foot

closed my goddess eyes

dreamed the new world

I, too, was filled with that light

opened my human heart

danced a tabla rhythm

jingled my golden coins

walked among you smiling

but it’s dark now

and I’ve been silent

shining still, but silent

my four arms poised

Yes

Can I stay present to the ache of loss or disgrace—disappointment in all its many forms—and let it open me?  

Pema Chodron

It's my birthday

I see your colors

with my good eye

and my bad eye

sees shadows

where there are shadows

I see more than you want

and must close them

still I listen for your accent

and your silence

such music

day to day

I can’t function

and you’re making puzzles

he said

you keep suffering

and I’ll keep paying bills

she said

and they lived happily ever after

listen

more love
like 
your love
rhymes

not dismissed

you're not mine to miss
but you are not
dismissed

kindly stay

I can't hold on
for more than
half a day

so don't stray

we can talk
about others
we can say
nothing or
even too much

it's all okay

Still

I put a spell on you
and you saw it coming
but still

it's wearing off
as charms must do
but still

birds are clamoring
it's six am
the cat is nudging
but still

I could lie here all morning
not abandoning
these thoughts of you

 

colors

glad you got your
colors back
old flame

your reds
your oranges
your blues

i do remember 
all of those

had i myself
only been
more visible
to the naked eye

You again

Mike was a senior at Michigan State when we were first dating, and he became one of two recipients of a major fellowship to enter the PhD program in English lit at Emory University.  So a year into our relationship, we prepared to part ways, as college sweethearts often do, and I made the trip to Georgia with him in late August to help him get settled.  His parents were coming the next day with the U-Haul.  I was also doing well academically, having been recommended by a prof for the English Honors program at the University of Michigan entering my Junior year. 

We had a nice drive south, taking the long way through the mountains.  In Atlanta, though, things turned strange.  Mike couldn’t understand the woman at the Wendy’s drive-thru, because of her accent, and it triggered some kind of panic.  Back at the hotel, he became increasingly withdrawn, until he was curled up on the bed staring at the wall.  Finally he declared that he couldn’t do this thing, and he would tell everyone tomorrow.  Neither I nor his parents could talk him into putting in at least the year that was covered by the fellowship he'd been offered.  He disappointed Emory (someone else could have used that fellowship), his profs who’d gone out of their way to get him the sweet deal, and his parents, who told him they accepted his decision but that he wouldn’t be returning to Michigan to live in their house.

So that was the inauspicious beginning of our 13 years of living together.  Having nowhere else to go, he asked to move in with me and my college roommate, and I said okay.  Then he asked me to drop out of college and work for a year “or so,”  so we could save enough money to move to Boston and attend school there together, me finishing my undergrad and he going to grad school.  I didn’t know that I wanted this or anything like it.  I had just been prepared to let our relationship breathe, living in separate states pursuing individual dreams, possibly meeting new people and drifting apart; and now, the very next day, I was being asked to show a substantial, married person's level of devotion.  

I yielded to his powers of persuasion.  He worked at a packing and shipping company, quickly shooting up the ranks to become manager (within months), and I worked several clerical and tech jobs at the hospital.  A year and one semester later, I re-entered the University of Michigan, after it became clear that Mike was never going to follow through on the Boston angle.   I was by then two years older than my graduating class, having already taken a year before going to college after high school. 

Mike aced the LSAT and got into the University of Michigan law school the following year, and as always, was very successful using a moderate amount of effort. One of his classmates marveled that he did far better than she did on the Property final using *her* notes.  In his summer internships he was productive, clever, handsome, tall and brilliant, and he was loved.  They missed him at the Mail Shoppe.

Mike routinely expressed doubts as to whether I could make him happy, and whether he had had enough experience with women to know what he truly wanted.  It bothered him that I had had a handful of older lovers before moving to Michigan, even though my overly sexualized youth was not a thing to envy; he didn't like it that a younger lover had died tragically, just before I started college, and that I was still sad about his death.  

And for some reason I wake up this morning remembering all of this, as if it happened yesterday and not a lifetime ago.

 
 

Fire

"I'll use your bosom
for my pillow, little darling
when the world's on fire..."

i.e., 

there's no stopping
the apocalypse but
this is nice

Love

love has many faces
most of them
inappropriate

like

i was wide asleep
now in love i am
fast awake

like
 
memorizing his clothes today
in case i'm asked 
to describe them

like 

euthanization
we all know
i killed her

clues

little birds
eroticist
Anais Nin


quack
representation 
pettifoggery


a la depeche mode
but even more
synth-laden 


barfly
living the
lush life


ska!
soon you'll be
rocksteady

Broke

Two days ago a woman with a young son approached me and Daniel in the Westgate parking lot.  She needed money for one more night at the Motel 6 before getting a spot at Alpha House.  I noticed that her neck was scraped raw and bloody.  "I'm broke, and I don't know what to do," she said, with tears welling.  "Mom, I'm hungry," said the young boy.  "I know, I know," she replied.  I gave them the six bucks I had, told her I wished it was more.  Yes, this could have been a routine for this woman.  I've still been haunted by it.  The sequence of their approach and our interaction intrudes and recurs like the pivotal moment of a meaningful dream.  Daniel was quiet for hours, too, after that.  Our symmetry with that mother and son didn't escape him, I believe.  There but for the grace of god.  It doesn't really matter whether her story is "true."  I am singled out by that moment in time, my reaction to her is real, it's unexpected, and it means something. 

So many have fallen by the wayside.  So many are talented and motivated and successful.  There's pity I feel for some, and there's envy of others.  Same energy.  I'll buy your sad story and hope you're not conning me.  I still devote myself to whom and what I love, but it's been hard to accept that I'm now a good 15 years beyond the cuteness and youth that once softened the edges of my mediocrity.  

I may take a healthy break from my aspirations.  This morning I asked myself what would happen if I didn't fill my spare time with inferior singing and so-so puzzle-making.  What would I find out?

Miscellany

not so love sick
no, just so sick 
of love
_____

her kidneys are weak
but her meow!
still strong
_____

This paycheck to
paycheck life
this breadwinner fail
_____

I've got 
your whole number
my integral one
_____

wears a bowtie
tells fart jokes
my boy



 

 


 

 

It

You want to know why

I don’t like caterpillars.

It’s the way they cling.

They won’t just brush off,

these eyeless, grim cylinders,

grasping and writhing.

Fat truths will persist.

And we fall for butterflies

don't we?  Also true.