life after your life

it's like this. it's not standing still. it's not folding hands. it's not allowing one quiet moment because if you did, if you allowed that, then what? it's beavers and bees. it's lava and ice. it's hurtling full speed towards moving objects and throwing yourself off planets. it's shifting from foot to foot. always running. one way or another.

just another wednesday

courage.
just some courage.
and if he taught me anything...
deep breath.
look.

the blanket that held his warmth.
the sleeper that holds his blood.
the bracelet that bears his name.

i can't breath.
courage.

the hat that covered his head.
the box that holds his ashes.

what's left of my son is dust.
in the box.
little bones.
tiny red hairs.
is this courage?
are great, gulping, breaths courage?
is it courage that hides the box away?
under my nightgowns?
below the sweaters?

i wish i was capable of so much more.

saturday

some days are harder than others.

golly, i really miss that cd.

there once was a fella named alex
who borrowed my gorillaz cd.
"alex," i said "just buy it."
"why, when i can get it for free?"

yes

"do you want to try again?"
i look at her and she is all kindness. i see it in her eyes. this woman cares for me. she cares for me in the same way she cares for my body. checking things over. making sure everything is back to the way it was. before.
"do you want to try again?"
i wonder what she would say if she knew how her words kill me.
implying failure. my son was not a failed attempt at anything. he was not a mistake, accident, or trial. he was who he was, and for the two days that he lived he changed my life more than most people could in a hundred years.
"do you want to try again?"
i do not tell her any of this. she means no harm. she cares for me, the same way she cares for my body. everything in it's proper place, performing it's proper function.
"yes." i answer.
simply, "yes."

alone again

why is it that no one ever addresses the dark side of christianity? am i the only believer who lives with broken fists?

an abandoned woman

bubblegum and cherry pop!
this is what i'm not but, that's not the problem. the problem i have lies with those who over simplify complex issues. there is no rose growing from out our palms and surrender is not opening the hands and letting a butterfly free. it's not. it never will be. no matter how much we would like it to be.

it will always be: bloody knees and tears on tired faces.
grim mouths and white knuckles.
pounding feet fleeing and chasing.
it cannot be anything else.

silent acceptance is always accompanied by racing thoughts. the spirit is not still. desires do not cease. we reach, we strive, we bargain and plead. this is us. this is me and i'm ok with this. i'd rather be a complex wine than an artificial, overly sweet and sticky soft drink.

it can't get any worse, knock on wood.

Bang. let's start out the new year right. fresh and ready to fight.

the mirror fell off my door.
i have to laugh. i think at this point i will walk under a ladder and beg a black cat to cross my path. do i even believe in luck? good or bad?

life. crap. the stuff that you step in. falling from the sky "splat" on your head after you've just washed your hair for the big night out where the engine light comes on and the tire goes flat on that road that's miles from anywhere and the nearest house is a 2 mile hike across muddy corn fields in 3 inch heels and it turns out the house has been abandoned for months and the phone lines been cut.

is that bad luck? or just an opportunity for growth?

i'm sick of growing. i want flowers behind my ears, slender legs under a flowing skirt. how about kool aid lips and a slip and slide? i remember an apple tree in full bloom that i climbed with a book and a blanket. how about it? an ocean view from our sleeping bags? a giggle and a kiss?

i'm so damn tired of bursting into tears.

spooning

once upon a time i would curl against your back with my arm draped around your waist, my hand on your heart. i could feel it beating. you were warm and comforting. as my belly grew, this position became the only way we could be comfortably close. i would press against you and say "did you feel that?" as the baby kicked against your back. i wanted to share his life with you and, as if he knew, he would wake up in the night to greet you.

now in this position, i feel no comfort, no warmth, no shared joy. there is only the reminder of the betrayel of my flesh. my empty core. my silent son.

i feel like i'm breaking

i can't get the image of him out of my head. his arm limply falls to his side over and over and over inside my head.

i want his eyes to open again.

if i had a baseball bat or a crowbar i would bash all your windows in

tonight i got so angry. at a car sitting in front of my driveway. at my neighbors.
at my husband. at the police. at a memory. at the way my life has changed. at the way it is the same. at the feeling in my stomach. at my lack of control. at the constant reminder in the mirror.

at the death certificate that arrived in the mail.

the crossing guard

as she spies me from across the street i see her eyes narrow.
i see the wheels turning.
cogs and screws screeching into action as she impatiently crosses traffic.
coming closer she makes a rounded motion by her belly.
"did you..." she glances down at my stomach and stops.
tentative now,"did you have your baby?"
"yes." i answer.
she nods her head and looks away. eyeing her cross of asphalt.
there is no danger here.
she looks back at me, "everything ok?"
"no," i manage to say before my throat closes.
and suddenly here i am, in the middle of downtown milwaukee, falling apart.
crumbling in the busy intersection my boy will never see.
being held by the crossing guard who will never help him cross the street.

my son, my own

when i stop crying i will be lost
lost in that place without memory
or feeling
the disconnect between head and heart
a twisted wire

when i stop crying i shall start to scream
i will scream at the top of my lungs
and beg for strength to refuse the air
to shut my eyes to the morning
to the sun

when i am through screaming i will bleed
my blood will be anguish
it will pool around my ankles
cover my thighs
breasts
mouth, eyes
i will bleed every drop for you

for every tear you could not cry
for every word you could not say
for every gesture you could not make
i cry, scream, bleed, die
a thousand deaths

and my thousand deaths will never equal your one.

mad, marvelous mary..i think about her more than i should

she sees with her eyes
and she talks with her mouth
but it doesn't add up.
it never adds up.
falling asleep on a bench
she loses herself in the sounds of welcome and departure
and dreams of home.
the flowers on the prairie
and the horse that got loose.
following it down to where the river bends away from the earth
she places a palm on it's bowed head and asks
very politely,"what's it worth?".
waking up startled, only half alert
she remembers.
it's been years since she's been home
and for all she knows the prairie is just a scorch mark stretched on dirt.
that's the image that stays with her as she handles the smooth stones.
the ones she picked up outside the pharmacy with the large window that's a picture.
the ones she'll let fly just to watch the glass
and the reflected sky.

dream a little dream

i had a dream that my husband died.
standing in the funeral home my father strikes up the band and asks me to dance.
we clasp hands and hold them high above our heads as we put one foot in front of the other.
a repetitive dance.
something seen in a movie.
we dance faster and faster and i spin with my hands still in the air.
i know that as long as i dance i won't be able to crawl into the open casket and close the lid on my life..

at home i stand inside a closet looking at our clothes.
his are pushed aside as he steps out from behind them.
he smiles at me and i think that maybe he has come back forever.
this is not the case.
he steps back behind the garments and is gone.

i wake up and cuddle closer to my husbands warm back before drifting off again..

i am standing with my brother, the police officer.
he has been called to a crime scene and i accompany him.
there is a shot and my brother, the police officer, falls to the ground with a hole in his chest.
i kneel at his side and i know that he will be alright.
i tell people that he will be alright.
the ambulance is coming.
he will live.
there is another shot.
the top of my brother's, the police officer, head disapears.
his eyes stare blankly up at the sky.

i wake up with the disturbing notion that tonight, death is actively pursuing my family.
and i wonder who's death sentence i am signing as my eyes close again.

tartan

her fingers are quick and agile, rising to her lips every couple minutes to catch her warm breath . humming softly, an old song of love and seperation, she stops before she reaches the end, frowns, and starts over again. her hands are urgent now. 12 passes of blue, 6 passes green, three yellow and back again. she moves swiftly. her work taking shape before her eyes.

from the doorway a man leans and watches, his gaze wistful. memorizing. he notes her strong arms and back. the flare of hips that have carried children. the worry lines about her mouth and eyes.

on the fire a kettle steams, upstairs a child slowly awakes from a nap. in the distance is the steady sound of a hammer. rising, falling. it hasn't been silent for days.

this moment is caught in a web. her strength, her love, her prayers etched into the soft wool making up eight yards of plaid.

she sends with him what she can.

i'm not an actor i just play one in real life

my heart must be smaller than other people's.
i can't seem to fit much inside.
like it's my last day of vacation and i have no room for souvenirs
all the space in my suitcase is being taken up with dirty clothes and sand filled shoes..

how to survive a train wreck

it is uncomfortable, watching a marriage disintegrate. you never know what to do with your eyes.
do you let them drift back and forth as though you are watching a tennis match? or do you look away?
"oh my, what's that over there?"
i am quite certain that the worst thing to do is to share a glance that suggests "aren't we the lucky ones?"
and "glad that's not us".
this is bad form.
no, i think the thing to do, since we are stuck here watching this deconstruction, is to close our eyes.
this saves our feelings and theirs.

because you told me to...

...i will say here and now that the Arctic Monkeys rock.
they rock in a frenzy of fists.
they rock until i feel like a punk school kid in a bbc movie.
like a pair of plaid pants and combat boots.
slap my bum and call me a bint.
i'm caught.
like hard thighs and lies in the back seat of a car.
like french kissing in an office chair as it twirls and makes you want to hurl.

just turn 'em up and let me go.



"...so all that's left, is the proof that love's not only blind but deaf."

strictly speaking

i once made you cry
a stream of weakness.
tonight i am wondering, do i still break your heart?