POETRY

The Words That Aren't on My Vitae

Meetings with God

God sat beside me.

She smelled like fresh cut grass,

and I remembered

reading once

that the smell is how the grass

cries out

under the blade –

but to me,

it just smelled like summer.

And He seemed content

to sit.

But I

never am

so I asked,

“what should I do?”

And They said,

“Honey

is made

in times of plenty

to bring sweet things

in times of need.”

So I took that

to mean

my work

was all that

mattered.

I flew

from bud to bud

storing up

my safety –

sealing off

everything

I earned.

But

when winter came

it wasn’t

enough.

Then God returned

and sat

beside me.

This time,

She smelled like firewood.

And even though

I knew

the logs blazed on their way

to ash -

to me,

it just smelled like stillness and snow.

“Why am I so lost?”

I cried.

“I stored so much

of my

purpose

into these

tight spaces.”

And He shed

one tear

that hissed

when it hit

the flame,

and said

“Honey,

you stored

the wrong thing,

and neglected

the sweetness

within.”

Ashamed,

I coasted

like a leaf

to

the

ground.

But the soil

was rich,

and my legs

stretched

hungrily

down.

While I took root,

God spread out

a blanket,

and They

dropped

to the

Earth,

sighing

sweetly.

And that’s when

I learned -

God has all the time

in the world

for watching

hearty

things

grow.

Of Insult and Injury

When I was wounded

it was scarlet

and raw -

the pain

relentless.

And you didn’t

care.

So I sat

in my dark and

solitary

spaces

picking at

scabs

until the pain

ran free

again.

I wondered

why

I couldn’t heal

as each day

I clawed

at the

wounds.

Until one day

someone

said

I had to

let it go.

And I tried.

I tried.

I let the wound

scar over.

I stopped picking

in the

dark.

But still,

my flesh

was tight

and painful.

Scarred

reminders

of what

had been done

or left

undone.

And the scar

was part

of me

now.

Throbbing

steadily

through my

days.

Until I read

scar tissue

must be

massaged

to heal.

That it takes

more than

time

more than

forgetting

more than

growth.

It takes

steady

attention

and love.

At first

the gentleness

was too

much.

But

slowly

and steadily

my fingers

met the harshest

devastated

corners

of myself.

With each

compassionate

motion

my pain

protested

then

released

and with it

somehow –

miraculously -

I also

became

free.

HOW TO TALK TO YOUR CHILD ABOUT SCHOOL SHOOTINGS

When bodies of children are

once again

strewn around the room

by an AR15

it is

once again

time

to talk to

our children

about school shootings.

So first,

gather in your home

where you do not have alters to weapons

and sit

in that chair

where you wrote messages

to your representatives

and penned checks

to lobbyists.

And remember how

you voted

each and every time

to make gun control

a central issue.

And make sure

you have plenty of time

to talk to your child

between the usual conversations

of how they are doing

checking on

their mental health.

Just like

you tune in

to the people around you.

and notice those who

struggle,

who are unhinged

and hurting.

And remember

the other day

when you argued

with a neighbor

about why having an

assault rifle

was not a right.

And maybe

you didn’t change his mind

but you’ll never

be silent.

And then you sit

holding your child

close.

breathing in

their innocence.

Showing them

they are loved.

Knowing you

can’t protect them

always.

And then maybe

you say

something

like

how danger can be

anywhere

how violence can

enter their

safe spaces.

And that is why

they have to

practice

hiding

under desks.

But they will look

uncertain

uncomprehending

because

pure minds

cannot grasp

what

we

have allowed

to happen.

SUPERMOM

You see the spit up on my shirt
the messy hair and
fine lines
and you mistake it for a cape.
You call out
“Supermom!”
I look around before realizing
you mean me.
I know you mean well,
but I want to run and plead and show you
that I have no superpowers.
That I don’t need this battle.
Yes,
I peeled myself out of bed in the dark
and showered before I heard the needy voices.
I wrestled with messes of limbs and clothing,
I fed uninterested mouths.
I bent and lifted and struggled and hugged and wiped noses and tears and said goodbyes and felt guilt.
And realized it was only 9 am.
Time for work.
I tried to focus and pumped and struggled to prove my worth and pumped and wondered if it was all worth it and pumped and sighed about all that was left undone
And realized it was 5 pm.
Time to get the kids.
I listened to vague recollections of the day and absorbed the meltdowns and felt guilty and tried to play but the baby was hungry and tired and there was never
enough
time.
So I filled the tub to the chorus of wails and giggles
and filled a brief quiet moment with baby suckles
while I still had Moana to babysit
and watched the microwave spin as it reminded me there was never
Enough
Time.
And I prepared food but ate so fast I could not taste it
and played and read books and snuggled and said a prayer and refilled water and put the covers just right three times like we practiced and closed the door with nothing else left of me.
I wanted to say there is nothing heroic
about being forced to wear a cape
without a safety net.
And it’s impossible
to be everything
to everyone
including myself.
And I’m not fighting a battle of good and evil
but still I’m pummeled and sore and distracted and so blessed and tired and I tell myself I’ll do better tomorrow
but then I remember there’s never
Enough
Time.

LOVE STORY

In Honor of my Grandparents

Do you love a love story?

The swelling music and

magic-in-the-mundane

kind of

devotion,

crafted over decades

of tender gazes?

Then I have

a doozy.

A tale of

girl pursues boy

And

unrequited puppy love

finally sparks and

ignites

and burns brighter than any

diamond he gave her.

Of children one - two

and grandchildren three - four.

Of autumn leaves

and pathways up mountains

and

gossip at bridge club

with stories that never quite end

about you-remember-so-and-so

while he sits as her proudest

Spectator.

And they knew

how to love

and traveled the world

collecting friends

as souvenirs.

And used their hands to craft

beautiful things

like memories -

stained glass recollections and relics

trapping family history

in wood and cloth and stone -

building a home and life for themselves,

but when that was done

he took up his tool belt

and laid new foundations.

So love burned

while life blazed on

and broke them

piece by piece -

his eyes and ears

and then

her mind -

until one day

she didn’t know him.

And he ached

and remembered

the pact they had signed

when their bodies were still

theirs to control -

that at the end,

the very end,

they would be together and

if not

they would go together.

I imagine he kissed her

as she lay there

and remembered

the width of her smile

and the expanse

of their lives

and all the brightest moments

but mostly,

as always,

he remembered what she wanted.

And he knew

he only wanted her.

So in a moment

(that was a lifetime

in the making)

their love was sealed

in one final act.

The epilogue

was shipped in boxes

and lovingly placed on

non-acidic pages

to carry their story

and remind us that love sears and binds

in beauty and pain.

And it simmers but can also explode and splinter off into disparate stories

that we hold

with

one

certainty:

They knew how to love.

I STAY

An Anthem of COVID-19

I wondered

If I could be sea sick,

Having never

Spent much time at sea,

But these days the tilting

Shifting tides

Crash relentless

Around me,

And I realize that

Forever bobbing

In

Uncertainty

Is a torturous thing.

I breathe in beauty

And somewhere within me

It is hammered into fear.

All waking and sleeping

Defined

By waves of difference.

My bones long

For solid ground

But I’m told

It may never be the same,

So I crumble

Into dust

Hoping the winds can scatter

Me away.

But, sadly,

I stay.

WHEN I LOST YOU

I remember when I lost you.

silent tears

flooding the

black and white hole

where your heart

used to be.

How the words they didn’t say

landed loudly,

and for awhile

were all I could hear.

I remember how each

dream of you

was wrenched from me

over and over.

I still have

some things

for you –

shoved in the dark

as if

you’re on your way

to claim them.

Your name hangs

wordlessly

in the air as

we continue on

without you –

a lifetime

that wasn’t meant to be.

A small piece

of death

within me.

TENURE

I bleed time from my tired veins

aching to be

Enough

and receiving only the most

rationed dose

of recognition.

The constant wanting

needing

elusive sense of what I should be doing

what would make me worthy

and really

it’s all

about

Time.

When my baby was there

at my breast

warm bodies straining to

connect to

grow together

I was pulled each hour

to the ticking

of

More.

I stamp my name

as many times

as they will let me

in hopes

One day

it sticks.

That one day a full second

can hold all of me,

and that this clock

won’t strip away

who

I

am.

Or lose

the weight of each

moment,

of the endurance

to strain

and carry the things that

will never

truly

be

counted,

and yet

are the only

things that

count.

And I wish I could smash

this ticking

force that makes

me dance

and contort

and doubt

myself,

but I don’t know how

to stop what’s already

Deeply -

Embedded -

Within me.

RESILIENCE

I woke up
the shallow pool
that holds my pain
was full to the brim.
She saw me there,
spilling over,
her own well deep
and well tended.
She surveyed my loss
nodded
and kindly said,
"It's ok, love.
Start digging."