The Dance
She spins -- shards of light shatter darkness dissipates. Sun rises and sunflowers search. Blaze beguiles and heads swing. Stalks stake nightwatch until blooms wake dripping dropping drooping -- waiting to drink the light.
Objects in Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear
Propped in the corner of my bedroom is a magic mirror You know the sort Everything appears taller and slimmer under its gaze Outfits chic, hair shiny Maybe I am the fairest of them all Over the sink in my bathroom is an enchanted mirror What I mean is that it does my hair no favors A spotlight on every wisp of frizz escaping my unruly curls My reflection crisp and clear, but shown exactly as I exist in this moment Maybe I am the Beast disheveled and unhinged in my castle tower The Instagram app on my iPhone is a mirror to another world I am Alice through the looking glass Certain all I see is reality Adventures untold await me on the other side Maybe if I could just step through the mist, I’d have it all The three children in my home are a fun house mirror Reflecting me back to me in a million ways My pace quickens in the hall of mirrors as my own anxiety Peers back at me through their worried eyes Maybe if I find another angle, I’ll see a more flattering image of my mother self The reflections pile up in my psyche, tumbling over one another, incompatible I puzzle over them until I am sick from the whiplash Finally, finally I break free from this haunted illusion Eyes closed, I sprint through the fun house doors Hands on knees, panting for breath My gaze lifts to see only trees And clear blue sky Sunbeams warm my upturned face Grounding me in my truest self Not a reflection in sight
Gentle Parenting
or, my mom yelled at me and I’m just fine
I do not want to be angry but I also do not want my rage sealed off and left to grow hungry in the dark. Every task is so loud and my days press me against the wall until I must howl or combust. I aspire to dulcet, measured tones— invoke French lullabies like blessings over sweaty, pillowed heads—but grow harsh in the daylight. I’m sorry I cannot keep the peace. Sometimes beast who needs to be heard claws away my hard-fought tenderness. Sometimes I feared the serrated edge of my mother’s voice. Sometimes I cried. But now, I too stand at the edge of a chasm, oblivion’s fingers tugging at my ankle. I’m learning what my mother knew— how to fend off erasure.
Meeting God at the Grocery Store
And it just so happens that you can meet God at the grocery store, in the produce section in fact, which come to think of it, makes total sense, with the whole garden of eatin’ deal. But I digress, which is what happens when you remember that you forgot your bananas. One second, your eyes are out for yellow, and the very next they’re next to lost in pools of pale indigo that sink ya quick and deep with: “Why hello! I’m so happy you’re here!” Isn’t there something in the Bible about staying awake? Or is it about waking up? Well, either way, let me just say that God speaks. Her lips are smacked with cherries. She pairs bell bottoms with a kelly green cable knit. She makes headlines with a hot red newsboy hat. And she says yes to silver all the way past the middle of her back. “Well, I’m so happy you’re here, too!” And I don’t know who hooked arms first, and it didn’t really matter, because where two or more are gathered this sort of thing just sort of happens. Anyway, I settled my hand on the silky outer of hers and like any woman with a long list and little bit of time, I told God, “I forgot my bananas.” And she said, “Well, I just love youuuuu” while her head tilted and did an inky-drinky dance with her baby blues. “Well, I just love you, too! My name is Megan. What’s your name?” She broke eye contact, chewed on the question, and searched the distance, only to return and remind me, “I really do love youuuu.” And then we more than half hugged, my head settling into hers. And this when I wholly knew whom I was talking to. Bananas, right? “You know, ‘Megan’ is Irish. I’m the baby of four, and my grandmother insisted that all of us have Irish names.” “Well, I’m Irish toooo!” “I just knew it – soon as I saw your sweater!” Her head went back in a laugh that gave me a glint of her fillings and I told her I ought to be getting on. “Now you have a good rest of your day. And I’d tell you to see if you can keep yourself out of trouble, but what fun would that be?” “Oh honey, I know! I’m so glad I saw you today!”
Karma is a Poem
There has been a poem running around my backyard for days but I haven’t been able to catch her When I approach, my hand held out like a peace offering, she turns away and slinks back into the bushes I leave her food and water and she’s left me a word or two, a thank you I guess, but it’s not enough to make a sentence Still, I notice that she’s sticking around longer when I step outside She knows I’m thinking about her Last night I watched the lighting bugs punch tiny holes in the darkness and as I was wondering what happens to their light during the day, I looked over and saw her studying the sky too It won’t be long now Soon she’ll be curled up in my lap
After Watching The Little Mermaid,
My Daughter Asks About Her Voice
But where does it live? She means, Where in the body? She means, Is it an organ like the heart? She means, Can it be held hostage? I could tell her all the people who may prefer her voice box to be a cage, her throat to be a prison, all the people who may steal her words and hold them captive in their own slippery mouths. I could tell her all the ways I still scrape the words caught under my own tongue, all the ways I still twist the rusty key to let the truth go free. I could tell her all the times I say to myself Good God Almighty, she’s going to need this, all the times I will her to memorize the exact shape of her voice, feel its heft, ask others to hold it in their hands. I could tell her all of this, but I still believe in the power of a happy ending—good defeating evil, the voiceless finally heard, the singing loud and triumphant. So I tell her, Put your hand here. Can you feel, can you see? This is your voice. It is yours to keep. And she sings and she sings and she sings.
An Unexpected Battleground
Try this shampoo. Don’t forget to read this book— everyone else is. Did you know in order to grow, you should post reels every day? Look at this new facewash all the influencers are sharing— it must be the best. Is it time to go? She gives me a thumbs-up after she goes underwater for the first time. Reread that book with the worn cover, the one you loved as a child. Did you know Colorado thunderstorms make the whole house shake? And that you can grow a tomato in your own backyard? Look at my daughter twirl and dance as we clean up after dinner. This is the best. It might be time to go.
Sister
I never felt the lack so deeply, never realised there was a hole until it ached. I took a meal to my sister-in-law, her four sisters all taking care: cuddling the baby, filling the fridge, talking, rocking. They’re one body working in harmony, Her four sisters, her four limbs. Who needs a fifth? Who needs another arm? A surplus meal. A surplus sister. How do you miss something you never had?
Spark
sometimes inspiration is a lightning bolt, white hot and crashing, something not to be ignored unless you want to face the angry wrath of the poetry goddess, the riot clanging around in your own heart, the kiss that begs to be returned. but sometimes inspiration tastes like a pomegranate that is not yet ripe and i am just spitting out seed after seed regretting the day i ever picked up a pen, a fruit, a body, a kaleidoscope of language. so i do what i always do when the words won’t come. i plod along any way - a donkey slopping through muck, a raccoon picking through trash. just another kindred spirit searching for a spark of something that glitters.
Jillian Stacia
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This is quickly becoming one of my all-time favorite substacks 💓
This issue was so wonderful, ladies! I love this collab!