What I Need Right Now
Someone, please peel the weighted blanket of all the roles and responsibilities I've shouldered off my chest. Let me shiver, unsure of who I am without my to-do list, my usefulness. I feel shapeless without your expectations. Let my molecules knit together anew--new bones, stumbling like a foal over the grass; new lungs, stinging with the sharpness of the winter morning.
Carbs are the Enemy
I’m trying to eat fewer carbs. Calorie-dense yet nutrient dry food that seems to gather and multiply on my dimpled, c-section scar and spiderwebbed thighs. But these morsels dance down my gullet and howl in delight like my children yelp on playground slides. “A moment on your lips, forever on your hips,” They say. (Who are They?) Have They bitten into a baguette warm from the oven? Teeth tearing into a browned crust? Crumbs stuck to lips like this season’s “in” color? Felt steam whisper on their upper lips until yeasty butter kisses the inside of their nostrils? Dawn shatters night sky, and my husband is tending to his bagels’ second rise. There was already the kneading and shaping and proofing. My Bible yawns, too, open to John 6. I wonder if I’m filling myself with expectations (Theirs and mine), choking on busyness and appearances. I’m thinking maybe it’s not the carbs - the bread - that is the enemy. But rather my narrow view of Bread.
Planning on Wrinkles
I plan to be an old woman. I plan to wear silver wires well past my shoulders, while inviting a murder to nest on either side of my eyes. I plan to look the part of wisdom and act like a child any gosh, darn time I feel like it, because I can’t imagine a wiser way to stay lost and alive in the woods. I plan to blow the dust off a new book and try my elbows at tennis, or the steady arms of a rocking chair on a wraparound porch. I plan to have hands with silky deltas fingering out to half hoist babes this way to heaven, from this side of the soil. I plan to have wrinkles so supple and so deep. My brow will insist on waders and teenage birthday suits. Because its waters will lap the thighs of anglers and lovers, both casting lines to catch something to release.
People Watching
I am growing weary of the internet I am tired of watching people What I'd like to do more of is people watching I want to see what people are picking out at the farmer’s market Make note of the greens and loaves of crusty bread sticking out of their tote bags I want to watch the line at a coffee shop Listen to their orders And eavesdrop on conversations about work and relationships I want to know what makes people tick I want to know their tics And meet the smiling eyes of another mother over our children’s newfound friendship at the playground I want to be an active participant in this life Treat it less like a novel and more like a choose-your-own-adventure book Each day a new page of my story, just waiting to be lived
Why are you coughing Mummy?
Because I’m sick Why? I’ve got a virus. Why? It’s like a walrus Why? Like a platypus Why? Like a diplodocus Why? Like a brontosaurus Why? Virus needs to pass through us Why? So the cough is extinct like the dinosaur-us
my future self is a badass
i believe she wears red lipstick, embraces the spiderwebs silking through her hair says a well-timed curse and cackles. at night she swims naked beneath a moonlit sky counts laps and fireflies feels the gratitude swell in her throat – a starless sea maybe she lives in a cabin in the forest chops wood with aging calloused hands maybe she lives in a cottage by the ocean writes poetry on driftwood, stokes her fire with words and poker sticks all i know is that she howls with laughter and rage in equal measure grabs this life by the throat, and refuses to let go. sometimes, i catch a glimpse of mischievous eyes in the mirror, i put on red lipstick and wait for the day I get to be brave. wait for the day I grow into myself.
In Which I Try to Save the World
At noon, the sky turns itself inside out, rain pelting pumpkins on the stoop. The children did not know the sun could disappear so suddenly, but I have seen this before. “Come here. You are safe,” I say over the downpour, scooping my children into my lap. Somewhere there are mothers who want to do this but can’t. Somewhere there are children who want to feel this but won’t. All this talk about tending to our own circles of influence, and all I want is to gather the whole world into my arms like this, sit on the cold kitchen tile, spine pressed against stainless steel, lunch left burning on the stove. My mother-in-law tells me we already have a savior, and I know she’s right. I know God does not need me, but still I try. Still, I erase the jagged lines, press hard like my kindergartner paper ripping, hole widening, and still I keep going, pink rubber against the page. The quesadillas turn black on the stove, and I let them. What is urgent, really? That you stay alive. And you. And you.
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You've done it again, ladies. Brava!