Little Women

We can be sisters and friends,

holding the door open, unconditionally,

like gentlemen. Because last night I grappled

with the coloring page, stickers scattered,

magneted to my fridge—by a girl, now pregnant,

who was once a child. Weren't we all children

once? How I envied you then—

My childlike faith that you were smarter,

stronger, better than I. How easily you swayed.

You came to my birthday party once,

gift in hand—a nail polish caddy,

polish in shades I could never wear—

while I hid my bitten-to-the-quick hands

beneath the table. Now, we could laugh,

knowing we both hid our flaws

that made us fast friends,

each of us afraid, that birthday day.

hope and keep busy

How fear gnaws at my bones

in the quiet of night,

its grip tightening as I lie awake.

But then it slips away—

as I make the bed, sweep the floors,

set the table, tend to it all.

Fear and I, how I wish

we could rest side by side,

together, in stillness.

But alas, only one of us

can rest at a time. While the other

is at work, busy the whole time.

how to wake up from a sad slumber which plagued every corner of your life

Not yet ready to slip

Through the open screen door,

Streetlight reflected

In the quiet fire of 4 a.m.,

When I first learned love

Was showing up,

Every day, at the same hour,

Small gestures between us,

Unaware of how it might end.

Now, as the dust settles,

I too can settle,

See myself clearly for the first time—

A woman willing to sacrifice

Four months

For someone so small,

In the largest world

I’ve ever known.

How did we never speak,

Yet you taught me how to live?

You were barely months old

When we met.

All I needed was to slip out
the screen door of

My human form

And help three sisters-
Three kittens I could save.

monumental

I have the right

to grieve—

with worn eyes,

dangling threads,

the loss of knowing

what is right and wrong,

what is good and evil,

if ever these were meant

to be divided into

clear categories,

as if the plant is not both

stem and leaf,

as if I am not just blood and tissue.

As if I am not just rubbing my eyes and nose,

not just lost in monuments

since nothing makes sense anymore.

Picnic

Feed me mayo-based salad

as I smack my creamy, tangy lips.

Watch my mouth close around

a fried chicken thigh,

sucking it clean till I’m

glistening and oily,

ready for a kiss.

Leave the leftover veggies

for woodland creatures,

then climb onto the back of my bike.

Feel the wind against your face,

and don’t forget to smile.

From here, we’ll go

anywhere.

Strays.

My mother said, "You can't save them all."

I, in my youthful hubris, thought,

"I can save this one."

But now, twenty years later,

I realize—

I can't save any.

of granite hand

in the shower,
wash away the weight of human failings—
the limits of us who
love like breaking rocks
on an anvil:
hard, loud,
utterly unnecessary,
yet relentless,
until destruction is complete.

no more hammer,
no more hand,
no more stone,
no more anvil,
no more handle to grasp—
nothing left to pound.

so dangerous the way we live;
no wonder we all die.

(!)

can a tulip bloom in the darkness of shame,
sour like a lemon drop, suckling at a candy teat?
soft, sweet, plump, pliable pink

—pennies, pennies, pennies.
copper pennies. taste the copper and
lemon drops. a heart that spills out

spills out the trundle bed, our eyes heavy,
shared jammies, secrets whispered low,
awake for the pillow’s cool side

we flip to savor in the chilled night.

ways my husband says I love you

I called the police when we heard those gunshots.  

You should buy something for yourself, something that makes you happy.

Is that the extra creamy one? I know that's your favorite.  

You understand things I can't even begin to grasp.  

Everything’s taken care of, don’t worry, I’ve got it.  

I’ll call you when I leave, and when I arrive, just so you know.  

Is this the right type of bread? I can go back to the store.

If this works, we’ll donate.

You didn't spend much time with the babies! Better go back in.

I love the way you treat yourself. 

I want you to be secure, set, even when I’m dead.

I cut you this celery.

seems easier to not share at all

child-fucker dad—

but not me.

nuance not easy to explain

—in the making of me

nerves on nerves

My anxiety seeps through all things,  

like the scent of a Laundromat,  

a fragrance I’ve longed to find,  

yet no fabric softener captures  

the mingling smell of all detergents

that blankets your local Laundromat—

As though I’m creeping toward the edge of madness,
        even when I’m in the shower,
        driving to work, grocery shopping,
        cooking dinner, eating it,
        making the bed, slipping into it,
        setting my alarm, awaking again—
Like I’m stretched tight on a medieval

rack, two breaths before the pain hits, but

then again it may not come. That's edge of insanity.

So those around me sense my anxiety too:  

the relentless ticking of the clock,  

the earth spinning wild beneath our feet,  

the hollow drop of a stomach,  

as if the world itself is unraveling,

but somehow only through me.

I think I'd like a life with no speaking; only rubbing against each other and other objects.

        —My life is filled with animals,  

kittens born and dying dogs,

  why not become one soon?  

          —I am crawling on the floor,  

rubbing my head on the couch,  

scratching near the door, splashing

  the water.  

       —So they know we are the same,  

I flick a mouse toy to see how many  

ways it might land by my hand. 

  So far, it was ten.  

      —Can animals count? Or do they?  

Perhaps a general "There are many dangers  

crossing the street," or "There are few scary  

   things in her yard."  

       —I'd rather be able to count but choose  

not to. So I could only say, there are many  

texts from my friend whose dog is dying,  

instead of a number that changes by  

  the hour.  

      —If I were an animal, I wouldn't know  

an hour or a minute, only a day with light  

and dark and a beautiful gradient of sun  

  in between.  

    —As animals do not think, "She will feed us 

in 30 minutes,"  instead only one concept:

'soon', for the sun sets behind her house,

      now. 

  Now, for me?

  I AM HUMAN, SO IT'S TIME TO FEED.

 

things i said to a scared cat but i needed to hear too

it's scary. big changes always are, even when they're good.

sometimes help feels like betrayal.

but you will be ok. 

i am still your friend.

i am still here for you.

it's ok to be mad.

it's ok to be sad.

i'm sad and scared, too.

i don’t know what’s next either, but i'm here with you.

i'm doing my best, and so are you.

you might never know it,

but this is better than what your life might have been—

cold streets, hungry stomachs, back-to-back litters.

this new place is strange,

too quiet, too bright, too different,

but it’s a home.

you are safe here.

even if it feels like a threat.

maybe the world will make more sense after

we get through this together.

secret to life

It’s much harder

to shape the world

to fit you,

and far easier

to shape yourself

to fit the world.

But the latter,

that's a bitter pill.

So go ahead and swallow

and swallow

and swallow

until you hit the grave.

she wiped the juice from her mouth

She's slicing watermelon with a machete—

the way some women became men,

then fled to the wilds,

never to return.

The threshold of manhood:

the blade’s sharp edge

parting the melon’s flesh,

its thick rind splitting open.

As the sweet juice ran red,

she turned from the village

and ran too.

Ran with the wolves. Ran through the woods.

Hands still sticky.

For each morning, a woman who ran

awakes with herself and drinks dew

from her hair, no matter where

she slept the night before.

And she was finally one of them.

every other line unsettling

An energy healing on Zoom,

                            sitting in a car, in a crowded lot.

A U-haul parked in the driveway

                            of a neighbor we don't like.

A scratch on my wrist,

                            from getting too eager.

A dream with my friend

                            kissing two children, same father.

A day spent unsettlin' scores

                            with the people I once adored.

Before mirrors

Not long ago, we humans lived without cameras or video. Even longer ago, we lived without mirrors. You may have touched your face and presumed it was vaguely similar to your mother's or your sister's, but you never really knew. You had to watch the eyes and lips of your loved ones and trust that they told you the truth.

You're beautiful.

Even if your loved ones were blinded by their bias and love, what did it matter? Whom else did you need to look beautiful for?

Then mirrors were invented. But even then, they were crude and reserved for the most elite among us. Elongated faces and images far too dark—you would have known they were distorted.

With modern mirrors, you knew your face and the faces of the people you met. You could only see your face as it was that day. You could only see other faces as they were that day. You couldn't look back on a past face or face of a stranger you've never met. And you trusted your eyes to tell the truth.

You're beautiful.

Then came cameras and video. You could see yourself now and yourself in the past. You could see faces of people you've never met and their faces from years ago. You could see faces of people who died before you were born. You could see anything—some not even real, but edited, filtered, altered, cut, spliced, and touched up. Some posted from a million miles away. Some people you'll never know who pick and choose what you see of them.

And I don't trust my eyes nor my loved ones' eyes. I don't trust that they tell the truth. 

Am I beautiful?

How I look at photos of a younger me and see nothing but changes—two starkly different women since all that has happened. Yet with these photos, I can compare. For a moment, time ceases to exist. Me today can stand next to me ten years ago. I am only critical when I am comparing myself to myself.

Am I still beautiful?

But somehow worse is comparison to strangers. How many hours in my life have I compared myself to women I will never even stand beside before I die? All day, I could stare in a mirror or a photo or a video and compare myself to these women I will never even stand beside before I die. Comparison only made possible by cameras and videos.

But it is hard to listen to my husband say I'm beautiful even one more time. Why? Even if he is blinded by his bias and love, what does it matter? Whom else do I need to look beautiful for but him?

All this technological advancement—mirrors, cameras, video—seems like a big waste of my time.

shadows

I poked my head from the hole

of depression,

like a groundhog

checking for its shadow—

and there she was, my shadow,

as the sun was behind me.

        She—

              My shadow—

looked like a freshly vacuumed carpet,

winking, promising

we could work together tomorrow.

satin sheets

Restless, I toss and turn,  

Daylight savings time—  

Fall back.  

But the animals don’t know.  

So I’ll wake at 4:30 our time,  

5:30 cat time,  

And every hour until then,  

I’ll check the clock,  

Turn over in my satin sheets,  

Desperate to find tender morsels

of sleep but not rest.

mensuration menstruation

I don't think you'd know what I'm about to say,
           but I'd still like to hear you try.

Sometimes the Lord visits me in the night
        and asks me to bleed a little more.
            If I can, I will—and I do,
                                            for a day.

    The next night, the Lord might ask
that I give a little more, so I do, do it again,
    and pour out the blood on the ground— 

                     Again and again.

Pour out libations for the homegirls no longer around.

     Till the Lord comes around again 

                                           next month.

And asks me to bleed a little more.