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.