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?

just a small trickle of spit, sliding down the face of true love

i do not (usually) like to speak badly of loved ones.
however, the words "deserving" and "warrented" come to mind.

i do not expect much from people and i am hardly ever disappointed.
somehow, or other, i thought (felt) that this valentines day i was worth a little more than a nickel sized, green goober on the floor of the shower.

this is my justification.

my sales pitch

i am terrified of making new friends.
there is a space, of a few seconds, when i must decide if what i am going to say is worth the risk.
if i give away too much, i come across needy and scary.
if i give away too little, i am cold and uninviting.
i have to choose (very carefully) which face i am going to show.
this never lasts long.
i am terrible at subterfuge.
try as i may, i can't pretend to be interested in scrap booking.
i cannot feign fascination with your children or your wedding pictures.
i might as well tell you, straight out, that i am something of a bitch.
but, i am a loyal one, and i am capable (in extreme circumstances) of immeasurable kindness.
that being said, if you can learn not to take me too seriously, and try not to bore me, i promise, i'll always have your back.

lord, please don't let me make a fool of myself.

i need to get some nerve. i ran out of my natural supply around age 12.

greenleaf

she sings these lilting, wandering songs that make no sense.
"fly, fly, fly and shake, shake, shake, and if i were a basketball player i would win the game and tweet, tweet, tweet, i win the game today. please fly like me today. ok."

then she shakes her head, pushes her glasses up on her nose and proclaims "Aslan is on the move today." before starting a rambling conversation with an invisible Mr. Tumnus.

when she sneezes she brings me her doctor's kit and demands an examination.

this is what her life is like. set up in 4 minute intervals.

"two hundred thirty" she says looking at the thermometer and then back up at me hopefully. " yes" i say, "that sounds about right."

now she dances away, "achoo. achoo. i'm sick. but i can play with you a little bit. a little bit? yes. hey, spin with me. jump like this, jump like this, make it scream, make it scream. you can turn into a fluffy bear and wear... HEY!" now she looks back at me "mama, are wear and bear rhyming words?"

"yes" i answer.

she nods her head. it's just as she suspected.

now she has climbed up into the wardrobe and is closing the door.

sometimes i feel like she's not really here. she's only a sparkle, a lost stream of my consciousness. she's a little gypsy moth just waiting for strength to lift off and disappear.

"Love and some verses you hear..."

it's not always what you say that makes the difference
between a good night and a bad.
it's the words left hanging,
like rice in a wedding picture.
i want to pluck them from midair and place them, jasmine sweet, on my tongue.

when i'm alone, i'm just that

there are some people and it's hard to believe that
there is space between them.
there are people and they laugh,
"i never saw your face look like that".
and sometimes they pray,
" surely goodness and mercy...."
they connect in the dry spaces between the rain.
"remember when we danced all night and finished all the airplane liqueur we could find?"

"who do you think you are?"
who do you think i am?

brush against my skin and leave your mark.
you'll become my history.

Maggie May (open wounds and a dream dressing)

last night i had a dream.
it had to be a dream because
i have no memory of his eyes ever looking like that.

they held the summer sky within them.
they held years.
years filled with juice glasses, oil changes, and
barefoot children in the backyard.

between the pointed green lawn and his father's angry glare,
he stood and implored.
unrecognizable in his warmth.
beautiful in his need.
my hands on the steering wheel,
had no place else to be but gone.

that was the dream.

reality was a tragic scene played out in ice blue contempt.
impassioned hands reaching from a car window,
and shining black hair striding away.