the leaf decided against botox
a tough decision, to be sure, but she was going to let nature take its course even if it killed her (which, she supposed, was the whole damn point) she had to face the facts: she just wasn’t green anymore (no amount of retinol or chlorophyll was going to change that) and so the leaf decided to age with dignity, sure, but also zest and a wicked sense of humor (what the hell did she have to lose at this point?) she wrinkled and crinkled, cackled and crackled dressed in the most gorgeous shades of orange and yellow and red (green was so last season) she swayed in the breeze, befriended her bark and her bite elicited smiles from strangers, grinned at the gasp in the back of their throats (because damn - is there anything more beautiful than a leaf being boldly and unapologetically herself?) and when the day finally came - she let herself fall flowing and free (she never missed the botox)
Jillian Stacia
Balance/Imbalance
Unease knots my muscles even now, balancing on a plastic bench, watching girls fling their bodies through the air as though held taut by marionette strings; perch birdlike on the beam as though gravity doesn’t entice them downward; hover over the vault, all their weight held by their own small hands. As a baby I nestled my full weight into my mother’s chest, surrendering to support. Loose-limbed and floppy, I couldn’t hold the monkey bars or hoist myself out of the pool without a ladder–– I fell down the bus steps, into a ditch, more than once. My ankles give out; my limbs tangle and trip over empty space. I’ve always wobbled. My daughter watches her coach demonstrate a new skill, beams with anticipation of a challenge to master. Of my body, yet self-possessed, she tightens her muscles, finds her center, and flies.
Diagnosis
I list off the symptoms that attack every month the week before my body lets go of what it doesn’t need anymore She listens, sympathetic, but I know what she will say before she says it: That all sounds normal for your age What is normal? This cage? This rage? Not being able to find my place on the page? I’m trying to figure out if she’s younger or older than me while she lists off some options They all come in orange, plastic bottles I want her to tell me to drink a potion from an amber glass jar, go down to the river and dunk myself three times, to tell me this is what the patriarchy has taught her to say, not what she believes, to tell me that she too lies awake at three in the morning while her body melts into itself and her mind fogs up so much she can no longer see the woman in the mirror But she just smiles as she walks out and I am left to leave the room normal for my age
While I do the dishes, I think about waves
Waves never look worn like yesterday's makeup, like a hole in the sole of a boot, like a shirt you can’t return. Waves are turbulent: raging, roiling, twisting, turning, writhing chaos. Waves are falling, smashing, crashing, wreaking destruction on boats and harbours. Waves flatten into fields of sun-speckled ripples. But waves never look worn, forlorn, Unlike a mother’s hands in soapy water, they are new every morn.
Holy Leftovers
Preaching on Isaiah 43:16-21, the pastor said God is too creative to duplicate the past. And maybe it’s the mother in me, but I heard this as an endorsement for leftovers. So, I’m slipping ‘em right under their noses. I too, am doing a new thing with chili again today. They’ll either warm up to it, or call it cold beans in the wilderness.
First History Lesson
After the boy dragged his heel through the anthill, after the crunch and the smirk, after every grain of sand lay scattered across the sidewalk, his light-up sneakers bursting blue and red, my kindergarten teacher crouched on the concrete. We don’t crush things just because we can, she said. How strange, I thought, for a grown-up to care so much about insects, but of course, it was never about the ants so much as power, so much as history, so much as doing her part to make our generation kinder than the last. Today, my kindergartner wants to know about history, what does it mean, where did we come from and where are we going, and I am thinking about ants. I am thinking about boys who never learn that power is not a weapon for wielding, about boys who grow up to be men who take, about light-up sneakers, about grinding whatever gets in the way under our collective heel. I am thinking about the crunch. I am thinking about the smirk. I am thinking about those of us who continue on because we can, blue and red flashing under our feet.
Please, Don’t Ask
In the early morning hours their questions haunt me “Don’t you want more?” It’s not a matter of wanting. In all my growing up I wanted to be an author and a mother A mother with a house full of children running and laughing and playing and all mine My heart aches for the children I may never get to hold as long as this sickness continues to control my mind I would rather be here and alive with my one daughter and playing and creating and laughing and living than gone with more left behind. Sometimes I wonder if it would be different than the first time now that I have support now that I am a mother now that I know how to take care of the anxiety and depression and suicidal ideation and loneliness But I’m not ready to cling to that hope not ready to wish for a different brain. So instead, I plead please, don’t ask.
Woman Mending
Inspired by both Camille Pissarro’s Woman Mending and conversations at the Exhale Creativity retreat
Sunday morning sun slices the mother’s laundry room window, creates a prism of light on the floor. She jumps into the luminous pool, sunshine licking her bare feet. She plunges sun-spotted hands into the dryer’s drum, digging like a child at the beach. The mother bathes in warmth of her family’s tangled mess of pajamas. Her finger slips into the open mouth of her toddler’s sleepsack. The mother’s explosion of laughter shocks her as she imagines her daughter’s escaped foot wrestling with dolls and stuffies. Forgotten crumbs of long past sandwiches wedge into cracks of her wooden, farmhouse table where the mother sits to stitch. Nearby, sunlight catches the green neck of yesterday’s half-drunk bottle of now sleeping champagne. The mother sets aside her sewing and tosses a raisin into the formerly sparkling lake. She gasps when the liquid erupts into tiny bubbles. “I read it in Real Simple,” she exclaims to her cat, “but can you believe the magic?!” The feline flips over. Isn’t this the mother’s mission -- to mend monotony? Shatter darkness and jump into light, surprise the world with laughter, resurrect the bubbles?
Holding History
As I sat in the coffee shop entranced in anothers words I felt an itching on my right shoulder Deftly investigating, my fingers found the familiar poke of plastic that once held a price tag Inwardly I gasped Wondering how to quickly but discreetly pry this piece of ancient trash from the flowing silk Except It wasn’t trash It couldn’t be Because this timeless black and white geometric print kimono once belonged to Grammy When she gifted it to me with the matching silk dress, we couldn’t stop laughing “You should’ve seen Papa’s face when he saw the price” she giggled brashly into the abyss where he no longer lived “It was the most expensive thing I had ever bought. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that amount was per item!” We erupted into a fit of wheezing I remember where I was standing in her room by her bed I remember the way her blonde hair was quaffed in a twist like always I remember taking the dress and shawl in my arms in admiration, lucky to be holding history I managed to free the little “T” shaped pokey material Twirled it in my fingers Willed myself not to be so sentimental as to horde How far am I willing to go to recollect her? To keep the memories sharp? I dropped the plastic into my gaping bag on the floor A compromise Between trash And artifact To one day again prick my flesh unexpectedly Bringing both a tear and a smile to my eyes
I Almost Wrote a Poem About Darkness
Just when I begin to wonder if there is any goodness left If maybe all the roots are rotten A small voice inquires Happen, Mama? at any sign of distress Bless you, Mama at any sound reminiscent of a sneeze Luh you! every time I leave the room Unprompted Thank yous all day long As though goodness is sown right into her small frame She is sowing it into me too Each glimmer a beacon Each moment of goodness a prayer I am an oak tree My rings marking not my years But the moments I once again open my eyes to the light
(and Phoebe)
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What a fun issue! Love writing with these women!
OKAY, YOU GUYS. 🔥🔥🔥🔥 loved this issue.