Category: #parent
Only child
I’m sitting in a linoleum room with ghosts, specters and occasional stranger
a girl with long legs like a foal, is pulling elastic pink lines of gum from her full mouth
and snapping them back, loudly
I wonder if I have ever sat so evenly in a chair, if I ever had peach hair, light on my skin like that
it reminds me of my friend who competed in gymkhanas, we made up our own horses, hers was called Mars and mine, BeTwix and we ran
so fast our hearts thundered up her grandmother’s hill in the La Roque-Gageac
her legs were like those of a foal, even at eleven, the waiters watched her with wet lips
I think of The Object Of Beauty, how Liv Tyler gleamed, coming out of the oval swimming pool
What men must think when underage girls begin to fruit.
My ghosts routinely tell me, I am without worth, they remind me if I had anything worth having
my mother wouldn’t be absent
a life time of inadequacy, wouldn’t be my legacy
I disappoint myself, not just the ghosts, sometimes I think
I don’t belong in this American world, where women are proud to work sixty hour weeks and go the gym at 9pm
still feeling they haven’t worked hard enough.
I think I am forever running in the Nouvelle-Aquitaine, with my imaginary horse
watching a girl turn into a woman, aware of too much even then, and not enough
the specters mock my lack of confidence, whispering in my detached earlobe
nobody likes a wuss, confidence is the American calling card, haven’t you noticed?
Even silly people and indifferent people get somewhere, if they believe in their
silly people and indifferent selves. And brilliant people, who doubt, will fester
like a ring someone lost in a river, glitters too deeply for marbled birds to
pluck it out and restore to light.
I lost a ring once, you’d given it to me when we were 14 and I didn’t have coltish legs
or peach fuss on my skin, but rather, the strong bones of a kid who drank milk with her cereal and got a stomach ache
reading Asterix at the pine breakfast table, with her stuffed toys.
I can still hear the plastic clock and hum of the washing machine
a warm symphony of my childhood, as I delayed leaving for school
and the inevitable crush of humanity, I had long decided was not for me
in fact, my trajectory was so far from that world of push and pull
competition and attention, fan fare and nose-pick small talk
I inhabited the after school hours like an addict of one
rejoicing in the quiet and empty spaces where
my mind could roam and gallop
sometimes I would sit on the roof tops of outdoor storage buidings
eating my soggy paper bag of sweets, stuck together from being
crunched in my pocket, head stuck in a book about
beautiful places with kind people and fantastic things
wild roses growing like thoughts from arching cracks
in concrete, their soft heads and sharp thorns
not the decapitated baby bird, I buried beneath the acorn tree
its silvered blind eyes, swollen and bulging
wings pressed like cries of regret for having never spread
in flight
something horrifying in everywhere you looked
like the terror you feel when you realize you are truly alone.
That kitchen clock would change day and month
but never really the precision of its emptiness
I learned it is better, to rely upon fantasy and avoidance
than the pinch and grope of society.
Often, a stranger would ask
why are you playing outside so late?
I would run away into the eclipsing shadows
behind the corrugated iron fences that separated
the good neighborhood from the skeletons
those bombed, bleached, bones of former homes
where a kid of twenty years ago had lain
watching paper airplanes cycle
above their head, clutching something with glass eyes
and faux fur, as I still did
funny, to find some comfort in the inanimate manufacture
of nature
my toys looked at me in the darkness and spoke
words of love, I needed to consume
their salty fur held
the cups of my early disenchantment
when teachers commented on my red eyes
I said; hay-fever and they believed me
because I wore a dragon tail
this was surely an adjusted child
with avid imagination
cantering alongside her friend
with the honey colored hair and long bare arms
absorbing sun like a shining fruit
I knew then how different I was
how quiet pain, how loud silence
my mother always looked so beautiful in
floral dresses with her trim ankles and long neck
I, the stranger behind her
admiring and shameful in her artlessness.
it was among the lost in forest, I claimed my place
when first love failed, when promises became
paper envelopes containing no letter
dishing out school diner and homework
leaving my scuffed shoes at the door
I climb
into the ivy
away from the party
a reflection I see of myself
gathering stillness like a blanket
she is fetching her best smile
for the emptiness of years
staring into emulous clouds, watching
for signs and miracles and unspent words
the sound of others laughter
rinsing through tall green shadows
like echoes of
someone else’s life
I AM A TOTEM OF MY OWN BRANDING
I’ve been told I’m a chronic pain in the ass
after all, it’s easy to destroy a child in an adult’s body
with past-tense words
and now in the time I’m meant to be at my strongest
chronic has visited me and stayed a long while
on a good day I think; This will not be forever
but temporary has always been a long way off
the doctors love to tell us; It’s incurable, get used to
living like this, hostage to something unknown and strange
as if that’s a normal thing to do
but if enough of us live with chronic illness, it will become normal
and that is not a good thing.
Before this …
I took chances, because you think
I’m invulnerable, sometimes I can fly
health, you take for granted
though I truly convinced myself, I had checked the boxes
right weight, exercise, organic, vegetables, no pre-made meals
(well, this is what I told my doctor, sometimes a couch counts as exercise, right?)
if I ate a slice of pizza, it was a treat with friends
though I like root beer, I never drank it
maybe making up for cigarettes, smoked in my twenties
but I thought if I keep jogging, if I keep living healthily
I won’t be felled, because you ARE WHAT YOU EAT.
A few months before I got sick, I recall
feeling strong, climbing through snow drifts and laughing
boundless energy, working long hours, feeling intensely alive
people saying; you look so healthy, your skin is radiant!
Those are not things people say now, unless
I apply a lot of make-up, to camouflage my fraying edges
instead it is me, who declines invitations
I am sorry I cannot go with you to eat, even though eating out
is the number one leisure activity where I live
because my stomach is ruined and I cannot digest much
I live plain and simple (and boring), like a nun and I am numbed
to the pleasures of wine and sauces and garlic, spices and oils
not recognizing my bloated mid section in the mirror
from the girl who once was told
she had an hour-glass figure, with a wasp waist
could run for buses and catch them in three-inch heals.
I know everyone has their burden
but when you get sick and it doesn’t go away
life becomes a series of scolds and let downs
you find out who really loves you and who harbored an anger
used the opportunity of your downfall, to insert a knife
it is the cowards way of course, but freedom of sorts
for none of us need, that kind of negativity in our lives
there is a blessing in disguise, when you find your tribe
the people who care and know the real you
not wanting to tear you apart, because it’s easy to kick you when you’re down.
But blessings do not salvage, the hours you spend sickening
remembering how you were rarely felled in past years
strong of body, sound of mind, juicing and walking ten miles
everything is turned upside down, inside out when you find
a burnt fuse, at the end of your outstretched arm.
There is no cure, there is no future
when you live, in a jar for the jarring
for a long while, I blamed myself
maybe in part, because someone I trusted told me;
“It is your fault, you must have somehow caused it”
easy to throw stones, at glass houses
I was a glass house, with many windows
break one and I cannot repair it
the wind will come in and make of my space
chaos
the sun will come in and make of my peace
madness.
Those things that brought me joy, were gone
instead, the regiment of illness strode in and stood firm
you cannot feel passion, when you are sick
ageing in hours, rather than decades, trying to stay above water
it is hard to feel hope
you rely upon the kindness of others
which is hard to do, if you are not used to it
and when they lift you to the light, you promise
if I can recover, I will try ever so hard to never be ungrateful
but with every mercy, is a dark day in hell
those days take it all out of you, like a scourge
the sickening can age you, more than a nightmare
one minute you recognize yourself, the next you are unknown
vulnerability, of not being able to take care of yourself
the expense and fear
your world crumbling around you.
These are things you get used to and when you have fallen
to the bottom and can no longer get up
that is where the truth lies
that is where you can find
your true self and the end of fear.
They tried to tell you that you were insane
making it up, all in your head, something’s wrong with that
crazy lady who pounds her fluttering chest in vain
tries to catch the eyes of doctors, with beseeching side-glance
SEE ME! HEAL ME! SAVE ME! WHAT IS WRONG?
WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO ME? WHY DID I WAKE UP ONE DAY
SICK AND IT NEVER WENT AWAY?
And yes ! Something was wrong with me and still is
not my doing, not my causing, not my dreaming
despite you saying; You bothered us, when you called and were upset
no mercy, no mercy, no mercy, that is not love.
Helped me let go. Don’t hold on to negativity.
Oh doctor, get it outt!
and if you can’t, then give me the key, the saw, the pick
so I may survive myself and somehow continue on.
Am I to label myself chronically ill, or in recovery?
Surviving or dying or all of the above?
how do you define what doesn’t go and doesn’t kill?
Spending all your money on alternative treatments that
don’t even know what they pretend to cure
how do you describe one good day, followed by one in hell?
others won’t understand, because they are well
what I would give to return, to that safe water place
but even if I did, I would not be the same
you live years with a loaded gun to your head, everything changes.
I am not me anymore
I cannot see out of my left eye
I cannot lift heavy things, with my weak foreign arms
I can walk ten miles and not break a sweat despite this and be told
by friends and foes; OH YOU DON’T LOOK SICK
I am an apparent scar of contradictions and pain
I hurt every day, my stomach feels like
something is eating me from the inside out
it convulses and retorts and shouts
“you will never win, you will bathe in pain the rest of your life”
but I will still try
because I don’t know how to give in to enemies, I cannot see
and even as I cannot eat normal food
one day I am good, the next I am dying green
even as nausea, has become my constant companion
and bottles of pills and vitamins rattle in my pit
even as I fight to be gracious in the eye of the storm
and those I thought would stand by me, try to drown me instead
I know there is still a moment
I am well enough to remember who I am
never to find that peace of mind again
but maybe recover to another state of being.
I wake in the night covered in sweat and the disinterested doctor says
“get used to not sleeping, get used to all of this, it is what you must suffer and many others do”
as if it is normal to be like this, as if it is something we should not mention
I will never think it is normal to be hijacked!
I jog into the forest, because it reminds me I am still living, my feet still work
I fight with wilted hands, when they tell me there is no hope
that I should just consign my former glories to a picture album and put
my feet up for a fifty year occupation of sofas and couches and day time oblivion
because THE POWER OF ME can overcome the power of negativity and this I believe
as I see in the mirror a girl who doubts but stares back unblinking.
I have lost my will at times
I do not write as much, I have less energy
the last time I had a romantic dinner was in a dream and I
sleep with a heating pad on my stomach every night instead of a lover
but I still pay my own way and my own bills
I have a pride in pushing back against status quo
DEFYING the prescription of HOPELESSNESS.
they tell me go on disability. Just give up
I am not going anywhere, but to the finish line
I learned
by losing everything and having nothing but
the sheer will and dim light of my existence
I can do this without those I thought I had in my corner
because I am stronger than I realized
and this grieves me, as well as reassures me
but I come from a long line of stoic, strong women
and it seems sicker than I am, that we should hate each other
because life, surely we have found out, is fragile
and love is all that makes sense
but even without love I will continue and not
let the flame go out.
Sometimes I ask myself why?
why not just give in? Take the knife, swallow the pill
to oblivion or some non-sign-posted destination
I don’t have children to protect
it would be easy to slip out of this world and its sword edge of pain
but somehow I feel I should protect myself
maybe because others did not
maybe because you defend yourself in the end
when everything else is fallen and you are still
somehow, standing.
I am weak and tired and prematurely aged into
a hunched over version of myself
hair greying with shock, skin is sloughing off and my
body is tied to the rhythm of a sickness that purges and gluts
I was told this kind of disorder was permanent
but nothing I have found, is ever guaranteed
so I have chosen to ignore this and believe
we can all fight and overcome
anything
even a death sentence
even betrayal
even silence
and when we know this
when we are strong for our weakness
realize our tears are just water and salt
burning the frustration of our visiting menace
then, we know nothing can hurt us, more than it already has
and we are free to dream
of a future without so much pain
where death stands to the side and lets us regain
some of our former dignity
for there is nothing dignified in sickness
and you don’t know me when you said I was glamorous
that is the last thing I am
I am beautiful for my courage
beautiful for my fear
beautiful for my survival
beautiful for my defeat
beautiful for my mercy of those who have no mercy for me.
And life is a wax and a wane
life is a torture and a friend
I am the totem of my own branding
I may live in a time where nobody else of my kith and kin remain
and once that would have filled me with pain
now I know you cannot rely upon
labels of safety
it is only by looking into the hearts of those
who stayed by your side when the storm hit
even if it is one, even if it is naught
you remain behind
the tempest cannot roar forever
eventually even agony ceases.
I wish now, to be everything you were not
to love others unconditionally
care for those who are in need
be the change I want to see
I want to find myself
at the end of all of this
I want to tell you, sickness
you do not win
you are just a miasma
I am a spirit with a soul
I will endure you
the me, of me, will remain
long after, to remember her worth.
Before this all began and through it, learned
only the fierce remain
only those willing to FEEL
and not those who run from feeling
with the ease of the damned.
Moonshine
(inspired by finding an old photograph of a fancy-dress party I attended at University that I hadn’t seen in years)
One of them is me
but which holds the key? Later perhaps we
shall know our fruiting journey through
maze of youth
and slow pull of stocking
for kind of touch best found
in satiny afternoon glow
outside I hear my dim-eyed neighbor
mowing lawns until he aches silver
because his wife has turned away
nobody touches him anymore with
the dreams of yesteryear
so we sprint toward each
invisible finish line
with emptiness in our hearts
filled with busy distraction
nothing lasting, nothing to
endure or sate cold claim
of climbing into bed
unwanted or alone
the feel of darkness, our shroud
from terrible disappointment
and then
then I had it all and didn’t know
standing on the precipice
we laughed at our indomitable
facility to thrive
not yet diseased
not yet rawboned with stretch marks
nipping their silver lines like unwanted lace
or sagging pieces shaking to no
good beat
not yet diminished on shallow waxen wheel
of male adoration
though for me this was never
a piece I wished to carve for myself
it was the love of a woman I craved
like first drink from fountain
on a hot day with no clouds in sight
languorously we exult
in
crocheted certainty, time will stand still
make for ourselves exceptions and grand entrance
the labor of hope so easy and lubricated
then
we’ll never be shaken off
like a dull wet thing
nor left to gather dust
as something once favored
we are surely, gleaming warm heads
of our own personal state
if I could have heard the warning
should I have been able
to listen?
likely not for
day is long and hour far
we take lovers for bread and jam
hate yet a curiosity
our parents live robust
we can yet still, the freedom to
go home
there are structures protecting
the hollow timber of our hearts
from these days what we can we learn?
as growing up and away
truth becomes stretched and gray
friends falling away
the bounty of never-never coming to claim
her inevitable duality
delight in youth, for contrast is cruel
all should have its value
but we are flippant with our boon
and when the cold night comes
we usher ourselves to greater darkness
in the strangeness of change
not able to see what is portent
nor later
the freedom
released from expectation
to unfold our wings
take flight
no more a shining thing
but something effervescent
and filled with
light
casting its thrall
as long ago, diving for pearls
we claimed the moon
Want & Ritual
I grew up fetishizing
the nubile antonyms of beauty
Helmut Newton’s exploitation
penis behind camera stroking
sloe-eyed girls with tired mouths
smoking yellow papered Gauloises
nipples grazing peach crinoline
men’s eyes like dry stones, seeking squeezing
I grew up thinking
contortion and bondage was
an art form not
excuse for masochism
as unsupervised child, I’d look through
graphic design manuals
that inexplicably had vulvas and
perky breasts
to illustrate Pantone
it was after all
the seventies
what did I know? Except
women on beaches without tops
giving me francs for not spilling their dirty martini’s
Mon sucre d’orge, sois gentil, va me chercher mes cigarettes
always gentleman watching
the rise and fall of female throats
nicotine mouths, stained vermillion
long tan legs swept beneath chiffon
men taking them to hotel rooms
children
smoking the leftovers whilst adults
fucked behind closed doors
wondering
when I grow up
how can I lie beneath
a girl whose sweat glistens
like marzipan
and if she should
sip on me I think I’d scream
all my silver bracelets falling off
like metal flowers on hotel carpet
after all
life is a film
where we tie ourselves up
with want and ritual
The deepest cut
It doesn’t take much to knock a bruised fruit to the floor
watch it split apart like rotted glass, shards of damp skin in slow motion
try as I might, I AM that bruised fruit
try as I might, I cannot seem to recover myself back to where
once took for granted, the feeling of wellness
it doesn’t help when someone you loved abandons you
in the middle of your darkest hour
things like that aren’t supposed to happen
people who swear allegiance and loyalty aren’t meant to
be the ones leaving your side
such is the hour and fickle fan of illnesses devour
at least I know I’d never treat someone, that poorly
despite this and because of it, healing is slower
though I suspect anything less than fire would be
I didn’t know these things beforehand
the un-annointed do not possess future perspective
to see how illness strips your childish faith, cleaves you
bare and gasping
where family didn’t need to see me, even as I spent weeks in hospitals
it cut me to the quick, but it wasn’t the first or the last
maybe preparing the groundwork for your deepest cut
they say you get used to it in time
I never have
just as I never have truly understood the cruelty within some, who profess so hard to love
now, I am a changed person
I cannot make plans like I used to, thwarted by my body, haunted by ghosts
my illness is like a cobra, she stays quietly in the leaves
rearing up when I least expect or when I want most to escape
her possession of me, the way she knows how to tickle fear
with just enough venom until I am on my knees
I am sure some would say, this is therefore; psychosomatic
that it what they tell all women of hysterical turn
I saw in your eyes when I told the horror; your own disbelief
until doctors produced the proof, you still wondered
it became apparent to me, just like with sexual assault
being believed is paramount to recovery
alongside having faith in ourselves
I did not do a good job of the latter
finding myself more alone than when I started
and I thought I started pretty alone
I know I am a survivor and I was not destroyed
yet it feels like I was
when I look inside myself and find
so little left, a house without windows
it was only because of you, I kept trying
I told you that, I said, you were holding me up
when you let go
I fell to a place I did not know existed
I wanted to ask; Couldn’t you have just waited
long enough to see me through the worst?
but you wait for nothing except your own need
I had to find a way to stand even as everything crumbled around me
which is the biggest test I ever had and I failed it
I failed it again and again
walking through the lullaby of desiring to die for so many reasons
not least, the never-ending dance with sickness and pain
but somehow I did not die, I turned instead to stone
when people say I am strong now and ask; How did you get through it?
I don’t tell them; I am not through it
I still lurch and shake in the throes of unnamed demons and at night
I feel like an arythmic god has taken me and is spinning me
on high-speed like all my parts are made of jello
I want to ask that god; what is it you are trying to shake loose?
surely you know by now there is no more fruit left
not even the rotten kind
that fell and split and sunk into earth, a long, long time ago
it is only me remaining now; leafless, without sturdy branches
I cannot rely upon myself, I cannot rely upon promises
no longer a young, untouched tree with green shoots
I am damaged, broken and hobbled, by this specter and the unknown
as much as by those I knew and trusted
asking why to the imploring void; why are we stricken down?
to what do I owe my continuing? Even as it is, insubstantial
can they see in my eyes, when I pretend, I am trying not to gag?
my appetite spirited away by the scourge and never returned
I would die of hunger and not know it
were it not for some strange determination
I don’t know where that comes from
but as I stand, it must be a place within me
does not give up, as she did not, all those years ago when
the flames licked the top of my house and burned, everything I knew to cinder
I am not like the rest of the world; stronger for my poison
nor am I able to disguise my scars
if I were asked what recommended me; I could not answer
I would probably open my mouth and howl
because you can reinvent yourself, a million times it seems
I am just one incarnation, coming apart at badly mended edges
you, who are able to vault life in gentle sprint, must mock
I am after all, just a fallen fruit, lasting as long as she can
in imperfect, bruised skin
You are not a girl anymore
Girl you are not a girl anymore
you are a woman
woman you are reviled and judged
for being a woman
when you were a girl it was suffice to
have a nice pair of legs and a pretty mouth
do you recall how often you were asked to ‘cheer up and smile love’
when all you were doing was trying to grow-up and be serious?
how men would do your bidding because of your WonderBra and not the sense of your words
now you are a woman
you will inherit
inequality
double-standards
and not be able to find clothes that feel right in stores not meant for your body
because nothing is going to come easy anymore and still
as you sit there in your curves and your burgeoning skin
feeling the surround of yourself lapping at the corners
you will inherit also
the voice of your round bellied ancestors
who have come ringing through time and again
been judged, poked, prodded or worse, flat out ignored
seen how silver haired men get all the fuss like carefully licked jewels
whilst a woman of substance is
lost lost lost
behind the mad din and snuff of youth
for youth it seems needs a distinguished father of any age
but does not require
a mother
a grandmother
a female sage
for women are judged upon their reproductive abilities and
the years they have lived beneath the moon listening to the shore
if too few, they are deemed unintelligent
too many and nobody wants to hear
for women are judged upon
scales created long before
an even playing field was won
if it has, if it has yet
for women it is easier to become lost after the lights have grown less hot
held to a higher standard than the eternal covet of men
who are picked up and dusted off by many worshipful female hands
too eager to say ‘there, there, I will help you, poor thing’
who shall help then, the woman?
Not her own kind, surely, nor men who adore only youngest vintage
Who shall see her? When she is grown and perhaps does not accept her allotted place
or wish to remain invisible or grow old with pressurized grace
who shall listen when she wants to be heard at any age?
or the desires of her are beyond the sanctioned pail
or her damp passion which does not flip and flop and require Viagra
a woman if she is loved
is ten-fold her maiden self
for the wefts and the welts are earned and learned and now they represent
a splendid coat of multicolor
she wears with pride and sometimes regret
but more often silver wisdom and the softening yet
of her edges into rounded corners and eventually
a supple circle come full
the world may dominate her discourse
the youth may clamor for their right to change the channel
she may slip quietly through the bridled noise
with strong thick womanly thighs
and as men chase their tail and young women cast a gaze that seems to say
who the HELL do you think you are, old lady?
woman, you do not bat your eyes or rise to those absurdities left behind
for she is the wake of day and dusted sleep of night
cradling the future in her all-mighty grip
she learns from being kicked
to stand she must let go of the girl within and be
a woman of our time
casting her pearly net wide as she
swallows the sea and sighs
letting the tide tumble out with her exhaled breath
aaahhh yes
aaahhh yes
Too many
What do father’s say
To their knock-knee daughters
Not able to sit on their lap and learn to shave
Their distant allegory
A return of themselves in female form
What would they?
A daughter born
Looks up at he who holds the world
Why do men let me drown Daddy?
Her eyes speak of hurt and scorn
Her belly wasted and torn
Why do they tell me I am no good for?
He who reaches
Into ether
Does not know the words for his daughter’s heart
He wants to break the necks of any who hurt her
But there are just
Too many
What I learned from my father’s girlfriends #2 Leslie
Canadian Leslie
sensible tweed and corduroy
dressed like 50 at 25
white turtleneck and tanned legs in Winter
a talented skier who told me; don’t slouch kid, you will stunt your growth
she disapproved of children who stayed up later than 6pm
from next door I could hear her twangy voice
then the creek of stairs as they climbed to my father’s room
women from any part of the world make the same sounds
hmm / yes / hmm
Canada, I thought when very young
must be a strange land if it’s covered in snow
and still the girls can be tan and have golden streaks in their hair
she didn’t like European humor or sleeping in on weekends
it makes you fat to be idle, she scolded and ate her sugarless oatmeal
after a while she didn’t like public transport or pub culture
so Leslie applied for a PhD program in animal husbandry and moved to Alberta
where I hear she raised eyes
adopting Vietnamese pigs and falling in love with a man from Beirut
her WASP parents wished she’d stuck with my dad
they weren’t ever going to work
she hadn’t liked my baby photos and wouldn’t watch
film noir detective shows on Friday nights with Indian take-out
she left behind some maple syrup and we poured it
on white toast
because after all, this was before we’d learned
how to make Canadian pancakes and Canadian waffles
from French cooking shows
Calm
i forget how far away I am
i have always been … too far
she says; Goodbye darling in a voice I know better than my own a voice playing in my inner ear avoir d’autres chats à fouetter distracted after my first mistake pencil in mouth, sucking on lead never good enough or precise in my knit i don't know if it's the last time I'll hear those words what I do know is I'm trying to stop myself crawling out of my skin and I can't say why this has happened this creature who seeks succor at the end of the day to hear your voice letting her know you're okay but they'll never know my child's wrapped need i can set a tone as ships collide and planes come down when literally the sea is on fire and she's no longer coming home These thirty years cyclones making cream of wheat in fields and when I'm at my worst i sound so damn calm