Wednesday, July 2, 2014

Poem: My Uterus

My Uterus


is both bombshell and shelter, a puckered-up skein with taught smile lines and stretch marks from the waves of holding and birthing her babies. Quiet now, in her strongest days she was the hammock that couldn’t break, fierce cocoon, mama within a mama. She sang soulful lullabies filled with love and sadness for she knew how the babies would go, slide into their lives and move deeper into their written or unwritten futures. Her time with them counted in months and their earthly time as long as forever will hold them.  Sometimes I hear her slack and soft wailing, then laughing at the children she believes are thriving.  Sometimes she lunges after newly-fallen eggs, capturing them in a suffocating hug, and I must deny her again and again, and it will go on like this until she admits retirement, when the eggs stop their monthly charge, and she learns a new way to grow hope. 

Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Day 30



I agree the larger
cruelties
are shocking,
something 
in the mind 
closes
to their vast 
nets; smaller 
cruelties
are sometimes
harder still
to understand,
and have been
known to skewer
any working 
heart in minutes;
close to home,
is the parent 
who calls
another child 
angry or mean,
whether yours
or not, 
a child who
hasn’t yet been
here a decade,
a child,
a fledgling,
without 
the hardness 
of adulthood
without 
maturity’s
noose, 
without classes 
in philosophy
and ethics
and degrees,
without any 
degrees,
a child, 
his stumbling,
searching 
mind,
and sky-wide 
heart
and hungry,
yearning 
gut, 
a child,
the star
and start 
of love;
some things
I will never
understand;
others, I 
never want 
to; how hate
starts can 
keep its dark
secrets to 
itself; my 
world is 
full, up to 
the brim,
the rim,
all edges
and sides
covered in
love I 
choose to
see; for 
what else 
is there;
what else
do you 
need to
teach or
to know or
to speak or
to sing 
but love?

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Day 29



Yes is the sweetest sound,
it’s the ice in my drink,
the mint in my cocktail,
the sugar cube on my tongue,
the sizzle in my spin.
Without the strung-out 
uncertainty of maybe, 
without the slammed
door of no, yes is a sea
breeze skimming my face, 
and it’s bold and it’s bright. 
Yes is every sunrise, yes 
is sperm finding a wanting egg,
yes is waves kissing the shore, 
yes is my home, my city, my state, 
yes is let’s try, yes is let’s go,
yes is why not. Yes walks away 
from the devils it knows. 
Though not always intrepid, 
yes tries hard. Sometimes
yes is meek, sometimes it’s small,
but even whispered yes sings. 
Yes affirms, yes believes 
in options and ideas, yes loves them. 
Yes is a lover. Yes is all flavors. 
Yes is you and me and us,
yes is every little thing you ever
wanted to know, and a few
you didn’t, yes is light,
it lifts and it carries and it speaks
truth when no one else will.
Yes is an exhale from toes
to chest, from groin to heart,
yes is relief and it rests its
head on your shoulder - a puppy,
yes, a child, yes, a seedling,
evolving, growing, changing,
transforming and becoming, 
then aging and you, yes, you. 

Monday, April 28, 2014

Day 28



The stiff rattle of fans 
like the claps of giant 
audience hands. 

It waves to the sun 
as she arcs overhead, 
to the cars and passersby 
below, to the ocean 
a few blocks over 
and every aerie and air-
bound body in between. 

Gregarious doorman 
of the great outdoors, 
the first very-high five 
of the morning, and the last 
sliver of silver-blue light at dusk.

With wide, happy palms, 
each a politician’s hand, 
an actor’s stage face,
Prozac-panged and sun-
drunk. We want 
to believe in everything, too.


Day 27



4.

The scream changes shape
turns into song, full-bodied, 
giving, wide, after the work 
is done, after the work is done.

Voice fine as a knife blade,
voice fine as a silk cocoon,
voice fine as the strongest sun,
voice fine as the steady moon.

Full-bodied, giving, wide,
after the work is done,
the song, the mantra, the voice 
grown tall, the healing done.


Sunday, April 27, 2014

Day 26



3.

Memory-shocked, unable 
to recall the exact time 
let alone the pitch, let alone 
whether it came out siren-
strong or whether it turned 
to ash when it left my throat. 
It erupted from the deepest 
cavern, the place where the root 
anchors, the one that shakes 
your life into and out of being -
that gun, that night, that scream-
less scream, the air I took 
as if it were my lungs’ last drink, 
carried my loves, my life.

Friday, April 25, 2014

Day 25



2.

On the Palisades Parkway, 
at the top of that hill bookended 
by the Hudson River and a steep 
ridge of wide-windowed houses 
where the stop sign blared its, I thought, 
unnecessary head, you, your voice 
lake-calm, said clutch, shift, brake -
an instruction manual sung in lullaby
for my first time on an incline. You 
tried, but I yelped not unlike the gangs 
of peacocks who roam our subtropical 
neighborhood screeching in their loose 
language. Mine, too, was a wild call 
that rang out in disbelief or, let’s say, 
for the unattainable, for me not killing 
the clutch, not sliding the car back down 
the hill with us in it and reversing
everything we’d worked for - our then 
unknown future, our unborn and the sweet 
life we’d soon make on the edge of another, 
brighter sea. You, my opposite, midwestern 
and unshaken, dealt me the same, new 
hand: clutch, shift, brake, simple, mono-
syllabic commands like this season’s 
shiny colors in a crayon box, another path 
I could choose. I moved us forward, 
my breath lodged like a small bird 
in my throat. The fear welled deep
inside me unfastened as if from a metal loop
weighed down by my many unoriginal 
sins beginning with spilt milk and running 
many rivers long. What I wasn’t capable of 
was a list I’d never written, but like many women, 
I knew it by heart. You were different, you 
believed only in me - my greatest prize.