in my dreams
there is a house with too many rooms
painted in colors i don’t really care for
filled with someone else’s furniture
books fall from stacks on a staircase
floors have paths worn deep into filth
bedrooms are all filled with strangers
i am lost in the heart of nowhere
where no one ever offers a map
there is always light when i want darkness
and no one has ever heard the word
escape
::
::
::
can you write a poem
about the things you do every day
without being mundane?
dishes and laundry,
smoothing sheets over last night’s dreams
sweeping bits of dust
into piles of promises?
i’ve worn a path into these hardwood floors
27 years of back and forth
around in circles
and i think of all the life
that has fallen through those cracks
unnoticed.
how many times have i wiped
the shine back into this wood stove
just so i could sit before it
and watch it gather dust?
i can build a fire in two minutes flat
but i’ve never had to put one out.
i’ve traded diapers for litter boxes
and mops for steamers.
this house knows all my habits.
it knows, too, to look away
at all the right moments.
we’ve lived together long enough
to recognize the shape
of each other’s
silence.
::
::
::
the strangest memories come to visit
while you’re standing in the shower
all naked and alone and washing life’s
dusty coating down the drain to nowhere
the old console stereo my parents used to
have in the dining room, bigger than a couch
big enough to still be playing songs in this
40-something head, songs that come to me
in waves of too hot water and saggy aging skin
i’d prefer not to look at, (the same way the only
mirror i use these days is the reflection i catch
smiling back at me from atop a glass of wine)
since they don’t make things like they used to
everything must be smaller, thinner, lighter
because we don’t need no stinkin’ gravity
to hold us down and keep us tethered or
even strung along, it’s never been the force
of earth or magnetic pull keeping us here,
preventing us from floating away like a bubble
about to burst, it’s always just the strangest
memories.
::
::
::
well, cuz,
you used to say in a lazy
d r a w n-out southern drawl
that was half swagger half tease
and i always cocked my ear
in your general direction without
looking because i liked to hear
your voice so much better
than i liked to see
who you were.
::
::
::
chased you down, really, down the street, two blocks, then three
hollow-tipped holes filling my heart as you became child,
and i, mother.
we both raced the ghosts that lived in your memory
and you ran faster so much faster so much faster and
i couldn’t tell you that i would protect you because
i didn’t understand that i was too short too young too innocent
to see even the tiniest glimpse of the demons you saw
coming on just over my shoulder.
in the end, it was you who talked like a child
me that patted shoulders and calmed as best i could
though inside my brain was screaming
stop and i
couldn’t find my way out of the forest we’d just entered
having forgotten to leave the trail of crumbs
that would lead us back to
before
and by the time you returned
to being you
the you
i thought i knew
i was someone completely
other.
.
.
.
compassion lies crumpled on the floor
manners moved on to warmer climates
grace goes to shiver in the corner
grammar was gilded and hung on the wall
respect reveals scars of abuse
kindness was killed in an alley
sanity slithers towards a crack in the door
balance became powerless to perform
sensibility stands alone,
too proud to say anything
::
::
::
there is always tea in my kitchen
and almost always, a cup in my hands
filled with a history that rolls on my tongue
as collective souls take their places by my side
sipping
offering advice and gathered wisdom i know
i should follow, but, being stubborn i am
always setting off to learn things on my own
rituals
become pattern and pattern becomes design
and whispers get woven in the fabric
of the living and the dead, all the women
who came to this table before i even existed
strong
like this brew that warms my fingers, my heart
stronger than despair, or anything i have endured
strong enough to stand here before me
revealing
secrets that make me smile and shore me up
against everything yet to come in this life
one season, one cup, one breath at a time
::
::
::
you couldn’t call it insomnia
exactly
this lying here staring at the moon
but you would never call it sleeping
either
even when i lie
still so still so perfectly still
she weaves her way
through branch and blind
writing long letters on misty pane
inscribing
sentimental signals meant for
no one and everyone
in some long forgotten language
always cryptic and teasing,
mocking and daring
until i take the bait and rise
to plant warm feet on cold hard floor
and finally look her in the eye
all proud and angry and defiant
to discover nothing more
than my own moon face
round and white and staring back at me
in a flawless transparent reflection
i almost never
recognize
::
::
::
the symbolism was so obvious
one wing
one match
and icarus took flight in my mind
soaring closer and closer to the sun we all worship
though it burns and ravages
we can’t help but love
the fact that it rises
in the east and lights our way
through another day
of living
on this earth, this good earth
this landing pad for myth and feather
and though i tried not to
i could not help
but wish
i’d been there
to see him
fall.
::
::
::
