that's mrs. mediocrity to you

being a sagittarius, i’ve never been a water girl. i barely even know how to swim.

but this year, something changed, something shifted, life delivered the cruelest of blows, and suddenly, everywhere i go, i’m drawn to water.

it’s a mystery, but one that makes me smile in weird ways at odd times. perhaps it’s the desire to float away from this pain i’m standing here holding, held in place by roots wrapped hard round my feet, refusing to budge until spring.

and i’ve been thinking a lot about anger.

the way we’re told, especially as women, that we’re not allowed to be angry, at life, at other people, at circumstances beyond our control. that we should be nice, accepting, nurturing, we should let it all go. that it’s our job to be happy every minute of every day.

i disagree.

there are times when anger is the only answer, when anger is deserved. when anger is the flame that keeps your light from going out.

i keep thinking back to the old “just smile and look pretty” maxim. the one so many of us were conditioned to follow as little girls and young women. the one we’re still held to as grown women, by those who want to fit us into those little, quiet, smiling boxes.

anger is a normal emotion. it’s part of life, part of living. it’s a catalyst for change. it’s a response to injustice, to intentional harm, to tiny daily abuses, to the constant squelching of basic human rights.

being told i shouldn’t be angry ends up being part of what makes me so angry.

one of my goals in life has long been to not grow bitter as I grow old. and it’s still one of my goals. but you know what? we have every right to be angry at intentional harm. i can be angry and see the beauty of a lone leaf clinging to a tree. i can be angry and cry at the beauty of a sunset. i can be angry and open my heart to all the world has to offer. i can still look out my window and smile at the titmouse cocking his head at me as he feeds.

we always want to see things in black and white, and we always think anger is red.

but i’m holding mine in a circle of blue, that place in a flame that holds the most oxygen.

one of these days, i’m going to use my anger to walk right through the fire that’s burning in my heart. and then i’m going to march right past all those rules til i reach the wide open shore, and cool my feet in the healing forgiveness of water.

perhaps that will cauterize my anger. crystallize it, temper it, transform it. but i shall always refuse to drown it.

you will hear me howl and the faint crackle of tough skin.

when that happens, i hope some part of you will smile.

is the seed
you never saw

dropped by bird or breeze or
gnarled fingers

holding silent
in
the cold of dark
the dark of cold
the carapace
of old

tend the bloom
discard
decay

worship petal
over promise

the grey kitchen
sings in whispers
to the rainbow
of brevity

each flower is merely
the camouflage of purpose:

grow
continue
circle-cycle
rest in soil

the light was always
your beginning

…

of cold

spinning deep down orders
to watch and warble and

listen

the way you stand there, alone, in a memory
of sanctitude

as if
as if

as is

forgiveness is the penny with no shine
worth next to nothing ’til you save it up
build a bright copper mountain
watch sleet coat the north

with patina

so much patience, required
this bold gift of living

inhale

over there, the beast just keeps rising
sun-gold and heat brittle branches
painting red a beginner’s horizon

luck is the path,
compass forbidden

embark, unmoored

stand frozen,
arrested

these clouds all smell
of winter

exhale

…

and i carried silence

limbs crashed as everyone watched
gladiator gold and cold blue judgment

but it tell you, i buried the seeds.

tending was a way of life
and you left me to it
watering
feeding
trimming fat
from bone

it’s not the burnished quiet
that destroys me

it’s the wind echo
petrified singing

cracking hope clear through
those
ring-counted hard-growth years

the sunset stays the same
holding space for another

tomorrow.

all i want is the gift
of a bare sapling
backlit
horizon

…

in the crooked end
of a thunderous day

all these colors
marching cross the floor
in turncoat uniform

the way you meant to go
in dark straight lines
but the labyrinth picked you up
on tiny golden bird wings

dropped you down
into the well

of expectation

deliverance in perfect
pirouette form

spinning leaves and knitted landscape
into this holey shawl

of absolution

…

the squirrel in the tree
i almost can’t see

racing hard
against gravity’s sunrise

hurry hurry
mask survival

in the distance
screams of geese
folding wings
to cold dark water

ever-floating
weary bones
through a litany
of maps
named somewhere

we’re all hearing
the same bold song

set loose
in a blistering sky

all huddled for warmth
beneath fleece
or feather

the ogre
and the ingenue

wrapped together
in the velvet clip
of silence

listening

release the girl you buried in sand
the broken mug you carried in hand
release the sun you held like rain
the bitter voice that slipped your name
release the carry
the call
the fall
release the heartbreak
of us all

release the truth you thought you knew
release the lies that no one threw
release the center
raw and runny
release the words that can’t be funny
release the cry
the sigh
the tarry
release the rhyme
the time
the merry

release the weight that broke your bones
release the scars carved from stone
release the hate
the love
the fear
release the flaws
that brought you here

…

i broke the last egg
as you gathered

berries

it wasn’t breakfast
we were hunting

sideways and
loop-edged
in the miracle
of kitchen

crumb-crunch on the floor
fresh bread
daily broken

the sound so much less
than silence

scriff-scruff
and ground level

eyes never met

through a limerick
of dance

you were always so bawdy
and i was the pattern

true pitch
ticking time
to your song
of burnt flesh,
soft toast,
crooked finger

twenty-one years later
that’s what we call it

not nine eleven oh one
not September 11, 2001
just
nine eleven

two words

three digits

two towers

four planes

thousands

of

mothers
fathers
daughters
sons
sisters
brothers
wives
husbands
aunts
uncles
girlfriends
boyfriends

not statistics

falling

from

the

sky

not dates
or where were you’s

just whole hearts
in odd numbers

each one

the only necessary

evidence

of love

::

.

.

I wrote this for the 10-year anniversary
of this tragic, horrid event.

I am re-posting it again today, in honor of all those hearts.

Never forget.

.

because all the mirrors
are broken
and your reflection

always hung
slightly crooked

framed by deckled edge
and past perturbance

and i
forever-settled
for the spot-speckled
lower left corner

while you took
center stage
with your soliloquy
of silence