A Woman Asks How Long I Was in Labor
And I want to tell her I still am, how, while I am no longer carrying a child tenderly in the globe of my pregnant belly, I am still sweating and pacing and roaring, still waiting for a world, a faith, a future I hope is coming, and coming soon. I want to tell her how my youngest is three, yet here I am still pregnant with the hope of it all, every day more contractions, every day more animal living in my animal body. Global pandemic (Breathe) Guns and more guns (Here, have a sip of water) Power in the hands of the wrong people (Now visualize a peaceful place). Any mother will tell you what it’s like to find your breath again, only to have it dissolve into a guttural moan moments later. Any mother will tell you what it is to keep your body soft in the face of a painful becoming. Any mother will tell you— the moment you begin weeping, howling at everyone in the room about how you cannot possibly go on—is the moment just before you do.
This Old House and Me
In the mirror above the sink in the L-shaped bathroom
of my 132 year-old house,
the coarse grey hairs along my part
stand at attention
On the staircase with the loose spindle
that regularly bounces
to
the
tile
below
my knees snap, crackle, and pop their way to the living room
Seated in a chair by the wall of patched plaster
I Google anemia and iron supplements,
make a note to tell the kids to stop slamming the pocket doors,
and wonder if I should start buying slippers with more arch support
This house has stood firm
through twenty-four presidencies,
countless wars and natural disasters,
and generations of women like me
She’s not perfect,
but she’s strong
And we prefer fortitude to aging gracefully anyway,
this old house and me
After Watching Beauty and the Beast
my children ask why Gaston wants to kill Beast. i tell them Gaston is a brute, in love with the idea of himself. he is a bully, he takes what he wants, what doesn’t belong to him. Belle says no, and he gaslights her. not unlike Beast himself, both use size to control. all she wants is freedom, to chase her own adventure. i see flag stickers adorned like jewels on breastbones. wonder if this masculinity — one of power, intimidation, bullying, impunity — will keep all the women locked in our towers. instead, could i rewrite the end? Belle belongs only to herself, swallows her song and her smile. she waltzes into the wind, her own dance partner. she chases saltwater waves, kisses mountain air. could he be locked away instead?
If I’m Honest
I believe friendship means never inconveniencing anyone with my needs. I believe friendship means give and give and give (but I do not believe I should get) I believe the strong don’t ask for help I believe I should never, ever look weak. Don’t ask me how it’s going. I don’t want you to think that I need.
Into the Void
They take what they want and then have the nerve to blame us. Why didn’t you just say no? Guess you should have worn something less revealing. (I was in jeans and a hoodie.) It’s never their fault. Why would it be? People voted for this. Again. For ourselves and our daughters. A world where we (the women) have to watch what we say or what we wear or get called a bitch or told we were asking for it. Even when we say no or our bodies freeze we are still to blame when a man takes what he wants. And then we put him into office as if our stories don’t matter. As if our voices don’t matter. They want us to seal our lips with a smile parted only to please to be perfect, be proper, be their puppet. So, instead, watch me while I scream.
I can’t write about the children anymore
not since they outgrew toddler sizes and mispronounced words not since their chubby hands turned long and lean their bodies too heavy for my arms to carry not since their stories, once so intertwined with mine, started writing themselves into adventure novels that I do not author
If you’re reading this in December:
punch your bags with a chin that juts / show your teeth like a lady who loves blood / bite hard, red apples with your whole, wide mouth / let ‘em hear ya chewin’ way down south / roll your sleeves north of your elbows / crack your belt / whip your lashes / grab your sisters (and their Girl Scout sashes) / loosen your knuckles / wicked your chuckles / hammer your heels to the front (that’s your line)
look cross / but don’t look back / you’re not going back / you’ve been kicked in the ass by the elephant in the room / the hell has rung / release the babes, the beasts, the leasts, each and every pretty boy, and all the damned
noise
for recess.
Just Grief Things
A crowd of ghosts follow me, whispering in my ears, brushing my elbows. They hide in photo boxes and old perfume bottles, weaving themselves into the fabric of scarves and the chord progressions of songs. At Thanksgiving, I eat my grandma’s mango pie, baked in the pie dish I gave her for Christmas seven years ago. (I bring stuffing in a casserole dish taken from my great-aunt’s house.) I startle at photos I slid into plastic sleeves more than half my lifetime ago. I find her Goodreads review from six years ago for the book I started last week. I buy the shade of lipstick my cousin mentioned at the funeral, start washing my face with Pond’s cold cream. I’m sad it wasn’t me asking the good questions.
No Small Thing
Laughter, a snort through the nose. Humor that hits in just the right places. Belly laughs that steal all the breath. A rage that cuts off the tongue, spits through the teeth, wakes you up to the broken things that need fixing. A nest of words, a net of language, a safe place to land. A mug of coffee, a couch to kick up your feet. The deep well of conversation, the bare-faced truth. Prosecco, a celebratory spirit, singing your way down cobblestone streets. Dancing alone in the bathroom, grinning at your face in the mirror. Wrinkles, proof of life, slivers of silver that shimmer in the light. Extra padding on your waistline and no desire to lose it. Eyes that see and a heart that accepts. A poem that shows you that is no small thing. You, my darling, are no small thing.
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😍 STANDING OVATION 👏🏻
LADIES. I got literal *chills* over these poems!!! Krista I had to read yours twice... wow. Thank you all for putting such heart and vulnerability into these pieces.