Check the box for “in”
please, when we haven’t
known for long what’s
real and actually
happening during the
day, while hours pass
like conversations drifting
either to course or off
and over waterfalls. It
helps to hear other
voices calling out to each
other, solid almost as
though we could hold
them and be kept on
this side of the rocks.
Tag / poetry
Colorful Language
I dye my hair purple to
say something about
myself, using color
as a statement, a
definition of sorts. I
have the choice to use
it, to pay for it and have
a nice conversation with
the colorist, my
linguist, giving me a
language of my own.
It includes words like
“rebel” and “artist” and
probably “democrat”
though it has nothing
to do with my politics.
I don’t mind. They
describe me, after all,
but don’t define
me. They don’t limit
what I’m able to say.
I can supplement with
my voice, my tongue
twisting air bravely
into syllables that say
I’m sensitive and shy
and kind. The language
of my hair conflicts,
actually, with my
demeanor. It makes
me at once bold and
reticent, vivid and
mellow, unhindered and
subdued. Color says
something about every
person, but doesn’t
contain the whole.
Who I see hears
differently than I say
or scream loud over
what others think I
listen, communication
scrambled and the
power to feel confused
in the moment.
Stop.
Hear my color, see
my story, the me behind
all the words and
visual aids, and I will
do for you, as we are
all given our own
languages to pluck
from the grass and gather
like bouquets, the
hardest part being
to listen.
Touching
My parents never touched,
their own frayed edges
brushing occasionally by
almost accident but never
grasping strong with hands
that really meant it. I never
wondered about it. My
normal was their far-away
barely there frailty, in
a cage they built in
childhood. My empty
hands didn’t know where
to go with their reaching,
even pudgy knuckled, so
I kept them closed.
Closed, I left myself out-
side, forgetting finding
me needing touch to
give me somewhere to
connect, someone to
love who knew my
name. I forgot to be
born. They killed me but
didn’t mean to. Man-
slaughter. Slain alive,
breathing without
oxygen, flailing around
in the deep end with
no way to swim.
Bony-knuckles open
I can spread my
palms and choose.
Interesting how
much I need to be
touched to want life,
to see life as life instead
of something involving
action but little
meaning, small love
and bland step behind
step. I can swim and
snuggle and twirl and
be a person who
wants to be here.
Because love is not a
theory, but a hug when
I cry in a dark room.
Christmas Angels
They always say not to
be afraid when they arrive
burning hot like the
sun. Above and around,
knowing what God looks
like they generally have
less to say than I’d think –
not like stars though, not
far away, but slipping
between realities as
though they were sheets
of paper. I’ve heard
they sometimes fight
their way through when
darkness guards the
page. Do not be afraid,
as though we could
manage it, however
good the news. But
I’m glad they try
anyway. Like comforting
a baby when there’s
a loud noise or a
change in cabin
pressure. Elevated,
unreasonably loved,
ransomed, so to speak.
Do not be afraid. Okay.
I’ll try to believe
they mean it.
Strangers on a Train
If I met a stranger on
a train I’d run like hell if
he said much. I’ve watched
Hitchcock and sci-fi. No
driving at 150 mph. No sky
diving. No space exploration
for me. Life is scary enough,
criss-cross hijacked work
and all the unexpected.
Weaving in I see you, great
golden-eyed feline protector
growling fierce and low,
my champion love and
savior all in one. Weaving out
I see the darkened rest. Warp
and weft deny each other,
refuse to catch. There’s
calliope music in the distance
and people flip knives on
the dock while boys are
bought and sold.
No, if I met a stranger on a
train I’d run all right. It’s not
the right answer
(being afraid)
but I’d run anyway. I’ve seen
few lions in the city. I cannot
know the God-mind, father-
mind, free-will, big picture and
find my way safe in the blind.
And If I may say, how then can
I trust you?
Where the Colors Go
I don’t know where the colors
go when the sun goes down at
night, or when the finite end will
come to open the spectrum
wide. I’m not a honeybee. I
don’t glow ultraviolet like a
wolf. I’m just me with my eyes
wide brown trying to find you,
trying to ask who you really are
behind all the light. I may
be burned for trying but my
questions burn anyway,
through my life and the evening
and the same instance of
opposites that have always
held my attention. Show me
where the colors go, and take me
there in the morning.
Waiting
Waiting is a branch from a
fallen tree, the air in Georgia in
August, a bronze statue of a
dog with his tongue hanging
out. It is silent. It doesn’t sit and
hum in the lobby, feet kicking
back and forth under a seat
that’s too high. It can panic,
but never makes a scene.
Waiting is going for a walk while
tests are being run. It’s talking
with a therapist while it hails out-
side, inside where all the dreams
are, afraid of being killed. It’s
paying $4.27 for a chamomile tea
with soy, because something warm
in February makes everything easier
to bear.
Waiting builds muscles, enhances
communication skills, forces re-
evaluation of all the whos and
whats of identity, plans, and certainties.
It shreds. It strains. It plants it’s feet
or lifts them up, allowing itself to
drift into the wide fog and accept
unknown destinations.
Unwanted
I never wanted you, you
know, but it wasn’t personal. Maybe
I was made wrong. Maybe when
God was handing out motherhood to
all the baby girls, he missed me.
Maybe I’m just screwed
up, broken in-side-out so what
happens to other girls leaks from
my strange heart-shaped holes before
it can congeal. Or maybe I’m just
me, and it doesn’t matter why, just
like it doesn’t matter who you
would’ve been.
I would’ve messed you up – sure then
unsure, right then left, weak and strong and weak. I’m full of leaks and
familial traits I never wanted to give. I did all the millions of your permutations a favor. I saved you from sending roots down and down until there’s no down left but to go in a different direction. I’m doing that for
you. I’m saying “enough is enough,”
I’m the end of the line, the last of
this particular form of fucked up DNA.
You are safe, never being, never
knowing that family is something
to be survived sometimes, and
breathing is something you
decide to do, and walking is downright heroic. I would’ve loved you. I could’ve poured my every cell into making your brand new person, but your mother would have died and
you’d have been an orphan just like
her, without a grave to visit. We
deserve better. I’m working on
better while you’re in the light,
unformed, where dreams coalesce
and lose their form but are never,
ever ignored. Even though I never
wanted you.
Seen but not Heard
Seen but not heard, a
vision of silence again
and again. I think all is
new, fresh as a lime over
ice in the shade where
the dapple obscures
isolation. The quiet
follows regardless of
audience.
I can answer that
question about the poor
tree, falling alone in the
forest. The answer is
yes. Definitively yes.
Without reservation, Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
It doesn’t matter that there
are no ears and all the boles
are closed, barked poles
tightened against the wind,
all sound absorbed in the
evergreen floor.
That wail,
that crack of pain as the roots
heave great chunks of earth
and branches flail a last futile
grab for the sky, is heard
by the one that made it.
The one who’s dying knows
what death sounds like, even
after it sounds like silence.
Purple-Booted Herbivore
I don’t get angry very
often. It generally doesn’t
occur to me to be offended. I
tend to say yes, have grace, give
room for people to feel. Am I
people? Do I matter? And
why? So many minds smarter,
more talented hands, hearts
more acclimated to a harsh
environment. I am one
whisper in a yelling world, an
herbivore, a lavender sweater,
a stare-at-my-toes-in-my-new-shoes-
and-fall-off-the-sidewalk kind of
girl. I have trouble crying unless
I don’t and the sob-waves pound
my internal shore as they do
silently whenever anything
suffers. That’s a lot, you know.
And look at that. I see my
shoes and they’re sassy, purple
boots with some swagger, after
all. I can feel the groaning of the
earth through the soles of my feet
and still paint my toenails
blue. I can stand with my face to
the long wail of industrial
tyranny and still hold down a
job. My heart can travel in
and out of my chest and still I
keep myself in surgery knowing
you, and her and them and us and
knowing I will be broken forever
just by the love-giving moment when
I no longer own
my self.
And I’ll do it anyway because I
am strong.
I am fierce. I have something to
say. Stop yelling a while and
you’ll hear.
Not Quiet Any More 