Lunch

This year, I am making my own lunch.

No brown paper bag stuffed to the curled handle, 

no special treats, mid-day snacks, no toy.

I will not be eating turkey on a fluffy roll, 

nor will I be reading a love note unearthed

near the bottom of the bag. 

I do not even know if she knows 

this is the first day of school. 

I do not know if she'll stop for a minute, 

pause and smile, thinking of me -- 

or her -- how she could create love for us

as easily as the sun turns to rise each day. 

All I know is that I will be thinking of her, 

at 10, when there are no pretzels to eat. 

At 12, as I stand by the microwave

to heat up the pasta I made for myself. 

At 2, just when I am craving some chocolate. 

And now, right now, as I try to type 

and type and type away at the missing. 

I feel like I should take out a brightly colored 

piece of paper and a thin black pen. 

And I should write in that printing she had 

and I have, so straight and true. 

"I love you" -  maybe a wish floating 

backwards to our time, a thank you note to her. 

Or a message for me about myself.  

That I can read, put in my pocket, 

and try to believe when my lunch is hard to swallow. 

Mom

My mom hated this picture, 

the fat billowing from her suit straps.

But --and -- it has always been one of my favorites.

The way she is looking at Sarah, 

the way Sarah is looking back. 

Love. What else could you call it? 

I miss my mother.  I miss her now, 

as my life turns to the right, 

into the last few decades. 

I want to know what she would advise me, 

whether I should stay or go, 

move forward in hope or hold the party line.  

I want to read her words of assurance, 

that it will all be okay. 

I will not live alone, die alone, 

struggle alone.  

I want to see her laugh just one more time, 

her head thrown back. 

I want one more hug, 

to be pulled sufficatingly to her breasts. 

I want her to cry with me in a few months, 

when I lose my uterus, my eggs. 

The grandchildren I never gave her, 

the babies she never swam with. 

I want her to hold my hand through that small death, 

the same way I cradled hers when she left us. 

August

This is the summer I had, 

seventy days in one circle. 

Every line, shape and color

a person, place or thing. 

See the rocks skipping?

The time spent on the lawn? 

Can you find SoCo? 

Or the driving range illegal break-in? 

Three pulpits, four walls, 

five blocks walked, nineteen pages written.

One question, one prayer, 

one fibroid, one groovy girl kite. 

Do you see sadness and stagnation

in these enhanced colors? 

I hope not.  The moped is moving, 

the windows are open. 

Sun beats down on bare feet, 

golden light shines on the healing table. 

The colors that found me 

were loyally bright. 

More Than Half Empty

Even then, on one of our first excursions, see her hand? 

The one that is raised and waving good-bye?

I force myself to write poems of light and hope, 

I spoon-feed myself the gruel of forgiveness, 

when part of me wants to lay down in the street and wail, 

stand outside her door and shout a fuckyou shout. 

One that her new love will hear, that the neighbors will hear, 

that her co-workers and clients will hear, 

so that they will wonder about her, what she did to cause 

and plant a seed with such a black and ferocious root. 

This is the weekend we would go to Zinck's Inn, 

these are the days of Berlin laughter and board games.

And now there are places I can never go, places 

stripped from me forever.  And I am angry, hurt.  

I feel like I am digging dirt to fill in a hole that has no bottom.  

Dark humus, as organic as anything I know. 

Not planting a backyard garden nor contributing beauty--

like a pink dogwood tree or a patch of royal iris. 

I am just lifting and turning, pouring soil into my empty spots.

Digging and digging, sweat like tears running down my face.  

Sycamore

A tax man was hiding up in a sycamore

when Jesus came through town.  

Not able to be among the throngs, 

he perched and watched.  

Waiting, I bet, like I am waiting. 

Jesus saw him, no one else did, 

and called him down from the tree. 

"We're eating at your house tonight, 

now, go, and get ready." 

I imagine Zaccheus leaping down 

and running ahead to prepare the feast. 

The sycamores are shedding in my neighborhood.

Today Pam and I were talking 

when a large piece of bark fell to the ground. 

She turned her head chasing the sound. 

I realized, speaking with her, 

that she is in a tree and I am in a tree, 

and so damn many of us are up in our trees. 

Perched away from the swimming tide of people, 

or tucked away with our sadness and ancient crusty hurts. 

Cubbied away from the pain, away from the unknown, 

and the terror where those two intersect.  

And, when we come down, 

by invitation of smile or laughter, 

when we loose ourselves

and say yes to the front porch, 

yes to sharing water and sharing tears, 

when we catch the sight of the beckoning finger, 

and respond, drawing closer and not away, 

we are so easily able to answer 

the one most important question: 

what is life asking of us? 

Just to show up, to shed some of our skin,

to drop the brown bark off of our hearts, 

revealing the white green of new growth. 

Half full

We have a choice in each sticky moment, 

to hold or release, to cling to or forgive. 

We have just two words that will suffice: 

yes and no.  It is simple. 

It has been six months, and today

I am thinking of the things I have gained since she left. 

Fear does not rule my life, 

I have taken chances, art classes, writing classes, 

new bold colors on walls that no longer drip with regret. 

My new jeans fit perfectly, my new short haircut shines,  

and several people have told me my butt is cute.

I have been to Williamsburg, I have been to Austin, 

I have eaten migas in the Magnolia Cafe. 

I have drawn madalas, I have sungs with women, 

harmonies and rounds, an octave of music, 

both high and light and low and bowing, 

still and hanging in a sacred space. 

I have laid on the floor and slept. 

I have wept and wept, tears no longer need coaxing, 

thay are as natural as breathing or sleep.

My heart is round -- not lopsided, 

I know grief and love and the growth that seeds in both.

I have prayed in circles of people,  

holding hands with men and women who cradle me. 

A baby shivers with joy when she sees me, 

my neighbors feed me.  Conversations over coffee.  

Chai latte sipped in Lousville. 

New skin, soft under my finger tips, 

new hands upon my face.  

I have seen fireworks, clapped along to gospel music, 

spoken my truth from a pulpit to a leaning congregation, 

I have called strikes from the best seat in the stadium. 

I have buried two friends, retired two more,

I have leaned on the light of new sisters and brothers, 

and thrown rocks skittering across the Chagrin River. 

Bread has been broken and passed, 

beers clinked on the front porch. 

Ice cream has been drizzled with chocolate sauce. 

White light has doused me, 

my spirit has founds its wide tide.

Fifty seven new songs are on my iPod, 

forty-eight new colored pencils are at my drawing station. 

My heartrate is slower,  my nails are longer, 

I smell of grapefruit and rosemary mint.  

There are no more boxes in my life, 

only circles, widening and strengthening circles. 

Just one small puddle remains. 

And, even now, the sun is out and drying it. 

Is there light in the darkness?  

How do we lean into the light of a tarry night? 

We have a choice in each sticky moment. 

To hold or release, to ask for help or to suffer. 

We have just two words that suffice: full and empty. 

Look at my hands now, and what I can hold. 

 

 

Taking Back the Room

The last rooms I painted before this one 

were her's at her house, 

one lime green and one strong blue. 

We sweated through one summer day, 

hour upon hour, me cutting the edges 

while holding my breath. 

Then, she moved in here, with me, 

and had this room, the ironing room, 

to pile and keep her stuff. 

And, half the coat closet, 

the whole upstairs walk-in, two chests of drawers, 

and the side of the bed by the window. 

I thought it was enough, 

this opening of doors and places, 

and now, knowing what I know and can imagine 

about a wider, you before me, 

thou before I kind of love, 

I thought wrong, I held too tightly to things and spaces.

And not her. 

Then, she left, one day her mind made up, 

without talking with me, 

without listening to my prayers and pleas. 

For months these walls in this room have sat empty,

like my heart, a hole as wide as North Dakota, waiting, 

waiting, for her -or maybe me -to show back up again.

Yesterday, I took back the room, 

painting it the shade of green 

she picked for her house, but with brown, 

stirred with the brown loamy muck of what happened.

So now, my more golden green is a forest color: 

the shade one finds after wandering, 

cold and hopeful, through the thickest woods, 

stopping along the ancient way to see shoots of light 

peaking down and glimpses of another stronger blue. 

A green tinged with gathering grief, growth 

and resurrection acceptance. 

 

Gone

When my mother was alive, I would have passing thoughts of her
less frequently than I would like to admit.
She had a huge energy, always making friends with strangers,
more than she seemed willing to know and understand me.
So she had to inject her way into my life,
calling, writing, emailing,
sending me every forwarded prayer
and "save the troops" message she would get.

There were years I barely acknowledged her,
and a stretch of months when we did not speak at all.
Yet, she persisted and stayed,
sending out her one way rope,
over and over again.

I loved many things my mother did:
writing SCR+BHR in the new cement,
reaching for my father's hand when they crossed the street,
putting fresh cut flowers by the bedside whenever I would visit,
the way she would cry at Christmas,
loving whatever gift I would give her.

But I did not really fall in love with my mom -- with her--
until she could no longer talk.
Her big voice stilled by a stroke,
the only way she had to communicate was in whispers
and movements with her dark, clear eyes.

She worked so hard, doing everything the doctors asked.
She lifted and pinched, she pointed her fingers
and raised her feet, trying to twirl and flex her toes.
She struggled to stand once, her heartrate bouncing and churning.
She amazed me, a hero to all heroes. A hero to me.
Never once crying, complaining, or asking why.

It was a soft time, a thin time,
and every crumb of anger and need was wiped away.
Like so many have said, the cliche warning is true.
When there was no time left to love, all I felt was love.

I remember holding her hand as she was dying,
talking to her, thanking her, wishing her a safe passage.
I apologized, I laughed, I told stories to her stone still face,
so honored to be the one there with her.
I remember the slight shift in the room,
blue air swimming in, and the last few breaths.
Then the silence, the color draining from her cheeks,
her warm hand heavy, heavier than anything I had ever held.

But what I remember most was the night
two weeks before, when she shooed me away to sleep,
before I would take the plane home for a week.
We thought it would a long process, her dying,
and my brother and I would take shifts.
It was late, near midnight, and mom,
turned to me, whispering, "Go, now, the plane is early."

I nodded, kissed her face, her forehead,
and looked at her as deep in as I could get.
"I love you, mom. I love you."
She wrinkled a smile, and said "I know."
And then, one tear, slow and definite,
rolled down her left cheek.
One small drop that had it all:
I birthed you, I bear you, I hold you still,
I wish you well, I see you now,
I forgive everything you could never say or do,
I forgive me every way in which I hurt you,
I will be with you beyond this world, beyond time.
One tear saying I loved you, I love you.
One tear promising I will love you your whole life long,
even when I am gone.

Facing Yourself

So much of life is binary,
yes or no,
like or dislike,
straight or turn,
now or later.
Decisions trip at a clip,
and you happily move towards oblivion.

Then, in one day, you start wrestling yourself.
You stand toe to toe with someone you've barely glanced at,
belly to belly with your own heartbeat,
eyes locked on mirrored eyes,
searching and scanning for a glint of bolder truth.

Is this the love you should feel?
Is this the love you should deny?
Is this the house you should call home?
Is this the city where you can nestle your soul?
Is this the job that fuels your backbone?
Are these the people who will raise you higher?

Does the timeline of your life
match the timeline of your most fierce and hungry dreams?

And nothing seems simple,
your future flipflops in a breathy chest.
You hunt for signs in lampposts and lawn clover.
You wander and pluck through the woods until
one sentence circles around your dirty feet:
love the whispered wish most ferociously,
listen to the desire on the edge of its death.

And then, gently, so quietly and sure,
you turn away from your smaller self,
and walk into the big skin
that's been waiting for you to finally show up,
shed of everything but raw, sweet ready.

Together

Nearby, twenty people gathered to listen to bad poetry:

rhymes that were not anchored in ideas, 

or slim thoughts that swung from branch to branch, 

never finding their way down to the roots. 

Nearby, two women and one man worked: 

foaming lattes, pouring chai tea, 

selling coconut macaroon vegan cookies, 

wiping down a rich wooden counter. 

Nearby, seven singles on seven laptops: 

hunting the internet, typing emails, 

looking up references to support thick textbooks, 

listening to music, small pods in ears. 

With all of this, we sat and drew. 

Drew about Austin, filling the circle with the fullness of us. 

Her turn, my turn, 

sharing all 48 colors in the box. 

This may look like a pretty platter to you, 

but for me, it is this: laying together, 

give and take, holding space, 

then holding hands on an open street. 

This is a quilt, a bed, a cupcake. 

This is a chicken coop, feeding baby Muskrat. 

This is a ring, a shirt, a bag, 

a pair of pants that fit, 

then came off, draped across a bed. 

This is the plate of migas, 

this is the bowl of starry sky, 

this is the road that took us from one home to another, 

two hands on the stick shift, 

downshifting when needed, 

listening for the rev of the engine, 

then her voice saying "Now, now." 

Mothering

I do not know how she does it, 

drives the stick shift with one hand, 

feeds a banana to her toddler son with the other, 

avoids the detour bumps along Adelbert Road. 

Today, Anne gave me the simple job of holding 

the bowl of Cheerios for Sheridan, 

and, within seconds, I had lost control over the Tupperware

and the cereal was all over the grass. 

How do mothers mother? 

Keep all of the objects in motion,

opening umbrellas, explaining automatic doors?

Answer every question thrown at them, 

in mumble language half unclear? 

No, there is nothing in the truck. 

Yes, you can throw a penny into the fountain. 

Margaret is going with the nurse, 

yes, nurses help doctors. 

It is endless and all I can do is marvel. 

My neighbor seems to know the right thing

to reply to every inquiry, even the hard ones. 

When Tavish asked her what grace is, 

she said, "It is the thing within you, 

that makes you kind even when that is hard." 

Good enough for a two and half year old. 

Good enough for me, too, actually. 

I want to access that open ready wisdom. 

I want mom's advice now that my mother is gone. 

I want to trail behind Anne 

and let my questions mingle with her son's.  

Maybe she will just answer them, 

quickly, surely, without realizing they are coming from me,

someone who should know the answers by now. 

What is the point to suffering?

When will I feel myself within myself again?

How big can my heart get?

When will I let the next someone in?

Will my hope conquer my fear? 

How am I to express my love now?

I can almost hear her, 

the answers I need rendered in short, 

easy to understand sentences.  

To learn, 

when you are ready, 

as big as it needs to be, 

when you are ready, 

if you let it, 

how ever you want to, 

whenever you are ready. 

Intersecting

My friend is kissing someone new, 

and waking up late, I imagine, 

then dragging herself to work 

where she spends more than half of her time there

thinking about one leg curled around another, 

or the way her kiss now fits 

into the nooks and crannies of a new landscape. 

She's on a journey, now, 

driving cross country across miles of skin, 

and so distracted by it 

that she simply smiles at the cops tucked behind billboards 

then waves: turbo love is not worth ticketing. 

I am not ready yet, 

but want to open myself to a generous and giving love.

I have someone who is more than ready to lay with me, 

naked upon naked, lip upon lip, leg wrapped around leg. 

And this would feel so good, so soothing, to intersect this way. 

Swirling green energy with orange, 

filling my head with jagged breathing not thoughts.

I am not ready to drive to Bozeman or Brighton Beach, 

but, oh, how a quick jaunt over to Buffalo would help. 

But love made for my sake is not love made at all, 

it is analgesic, an anodyne anesthetic. Only I would feel better, 

and the other person would be miles away from home, 

on the shore of Lake Erie, for God's sake, 

looking for a trucker, a train,

 a Dodge Caliber to rent and get home. 

I am in the process of approaching myself now, 

making flirtatious long glances into my own face. 

I am studying the curve of my strong back, 

and looking for signs of bright light shining in my eyes. 

I am waiting for the most important intersection of all: 

the day I fall back in love with some small part of me, 

something I have never felt or noticed before. 

In that one flash moment, the rest of world will reopen, 

and I will be able to reach back at someone reaching for me. 

Karma

It happened the minute she left me, 

I was once in a couple, and then, 

as soon as the door closed behind her,  I was single. 

One, not one of two, not half of something else, just one.  

And ever since then, I see singlular women everywhere, 

older women needing assistance. 

Margaret called in a friend from Arizona 

to care for her during her hip replacement surgery, 

Carol had to hire someone to drive her to the hospital, 

and Rita Marie's mother will now live alone in an nursing home.

Emergency call buttons, nurses' stations, naps after every meal. 

Ever since she left me, the one who said she would never leave,  

I have been building up my karma bank account, 

not kosher, I know, but it's the best this presbyterian can do. 

I visited Margaret in the hospital, 

Anne and I brought her a chocolate shake. 

I volunteered to drive Carol to her next appointment.

And, for the last couple days, 

I helped Rita Marie pack up her mother's things. 

I touched old panty hose, painted green cats, 

word search books, and fuzzy blankets. 

I measured lift chairs and end tables, 

I made boxes and labeled socks. 

My arms are bruised and my back is sore. 

And, even though it is being done 

to help people I genuinely care about, 

it is also being done to protect me 

forty years from now, maybe only twenty, 

when I am infirmed and needy,

and waiting for someone to push my wheelchair 

to the dining hall for whatever soft and tasteless foods 

might be on the menu. 

In a few weeks, maybe a few months, 

I will have to have a grapefruit sized fibroid removed. 

I had not cried, not once, 

until today when I read about hysterectomies. 

The book recommended that 

"the patient bring slip on slippers and loose underwear, 

something that will pull up easily and not disturb the wound."

Immediately I pictured that scene, me with...who?  

My dad? My brother? One of my friends?  

Someone from church? A nurse?  

All I know is that it will be someone who is not her, 

the only person on the planet I fully trusted, 

the person who bathed me after my broken arm, 

the person who held my hand after the visits to the neurologist, 

the person who wiped away every tear when my mother died.

She will no longer be there, with me, 

when it comes time to pull on that loose underwear. 

I will be alone, or with someone as mortified as I am, 

staring down at the scar running across my abdomen, 

and the scars still visible on my face.