Day 24: My Masquerade

My Masquerade

My anger exists like Bigfoot:

a mythical, threatening creature

supposedly living in my darkened recesses.

I swear she exists,

although few believe me,

my memories of her are grainy photographs

with questionable shapes and strange footprints,

my anger

looks better when she dresses like Anxiety. 

Anxiety looks undeniably better at any party - 

will come out into the light in fancy dresses,

make-up and good shoes,

Anger

wears masks like Fear.  Like Tired,

like Retreat and Self-doubt,

Anger has only ever looked like smiling anyway.

Like "you will apologize."

Like "you will mean it."

Like "this was only ever because of you,"

like fists that never quite make contact with skin,

like broken doors,

like objects thrown,

like stone cold voices,

my anger only knows

how to bury herself inward.

She wraps herself in the folds of my skin

to be in the only place she has found understanding,

to be in the only place

she has found herself

comforted.

My mind obsesses about forgiveness

before she even knows why -

like grieving without tears,

like casting your body

before you know what's broken,

I wear forgiveness like a song.

I only know half the words, 

but sing it anyway,

humming the rest like mystery,

like too-small skinny jeans,

like undiagnosed heart murmur

it lives just under the surface

squeezing my flesh like the tourniquet I wear as a fashion statement,

anger masquerades so easily

as all the things she's not.

I wonder

how it is that I ended here.

How this is the song I came to learn and

where I learn the rest because

this song is the record player set to my fingertip.

The grooves read like harmony set

before the melody is written -

anger

is the scratches and scars the needle learns to skip over

and keep right on playing.

I keep right on playing

because all I've ever learned

is that scratches

turn slowly into scars

and healing comes faster

if you don't bother the wound. 

Day 23: Aftermath

Aftermath

i want you to know that if i told you,

you probably wouldn't understand, because

in the end it's easier to believe

that we're the only one who

will ever get it anyway.

it isn't really.

this is a poem about love

and family

and the way they mostly take your words away,

or mine, anyhow,

and they leave you frozen -

but you knew that, didn't you?

you probably already knew - 

but I wouldn't complain if you said it anyway:

i'm listening, or

i hear you, or

me too.

Day 22: Untitled

"I can't write another fucking poem," I said.

She shrugged and said, "so don't," as though

not living up to a self-imposed challenge 22 days into the deal

would be as easy as simply 

choosing not to.

Some days

it feels like I am but a constellation of perfectionism and self-doubt

sewn together by over-active nerves and a too sensitive heart;

I am too much and not enough

in every situation -

but I'll see it through to its bitter end.

There are times

when I can't write poems

because I'm not ready to see my truth

splayed like roadkill on my paper.

My heart is speeding

to run away from today's truths

but I can't poem lies -

 the blank page acts as a truth serum

that I'm not ready to face,

so I'm not writing another poem.

Tonight, I'll read novels or watch dumb TV as a salve

to soothe the raw and achy part:

no one really wants to see

the bloodstains on the paper.

Day 21: Conversations with my grandmother

Day 21!

I visited my grandmother yesterday...and the following is a semi-poemed version of my actual conversation with her.  

I hope this poem reads like love and heartache, because that's how it feels.

Conversations with my grandmother

Hi Pussycat!
You said you would be here in 30 minutes and here you are! 

That wasn't 30 minutes. 

You drive fast. 

You're a speed demon. 

You look so good, Baruch Hashem.

I move the walker aside
lean over the brown recliner,

and kiss her cheek.

Hi, Bubby.  

How are you?

Better now that you're here. 

You look good, kenahora. 

I don't remember you being so beautiful. 

Were you always so beautiful? 

I think I just don't remember. 

We're blessed, right? 

Kenahora, you look good. 

Just like your Bubby, right? 

                She laughs.

What's your name again?

I'm Laura.  Steve's daughter. 

You're looking good, Bubby. 

How are you feeling?

I have a new chair.  And the girls come and take care of me.

They always take care.

I didn't want them, but I'm grateful they do good. 

Don't tell Steve. 

I just do it for him.  I don't need them, but I do it for him.

He worries.

We all worry.

We all worry about everything.

                She pauses.   

What can I do for you?  

I can't do a damn thing, but I can offer. 

You look so good, kenahora. 

You got skinny. 

Did you get skinny?

I like your new chair. 

Is it comfortable?

Betty came by the other day.  You know, she always complains.

I talk to Ruthie on the phone a couple times a day. 

You know, they tell me I can't drive anymore.

Do you drive? Do you live in a house? 

I can't believe how beautiful you are, kenahora.

I do drive.  And I do live in a house. 

Dad told me Betty was in the hospital. 

Is she feeling better?

Who told you that? 

Who's your father? 

Steve, Bubby. 

Your son, Steve.

Who? 

You talk to him? 

Why do you talk to him?

Which one are you again?

I don't know, was Betty in the hospital? 

I can't remember, kid. 

I just can't get over how beautiful you are. 

Your hair, kenahora, you have good hair. 

Do you go to shul? 

Do you have a shul near you?

I'm sure there's a shul near me, Bubby.

Do you drive? 

Can you drive yourself to shul? 

You go to shul.  Sometimes, right? 

We all go to shul sometimes? 

You know it's shabbos. 

I'm not supposed to be watching television, but I do it anyway. 

It's okay.  Right?  We do what we can. 

We all do what we can, Bubby.

So when are you getting married?

Whenever I meet the right person, Bubby.

The right person is hard to find, you know?

So it'll happen when it happens,

and if it doesn't, so be it, right?

I laugh.

I guess that's right.

We're all going to Sara's wedding in August.

That will be fun, won't it?

Who?

Which one are you again?

Baruch Hashem, we're all good.

It's good to be good, for the thing there.

I'm so glad you came.

I'm feeling so much better.

You said 30 minutes and then you were here.

You're a speed demon.  We won't tell Daddy.  
                                                     

We'll keep it our secret, right?

You don't go to shul.

That's okay.

You're Jewish in your heart, right?

Baruch Hashem.

You're Jewish in your heart.

I don't think you've always been this beautiful.

Your hair, my God, look at your hair.

I got my good hair from you, didn't I, Bubby?

Of course, Pussycat. 

You're beautiful, just like your Bubby.

                She puts her hand over her heart.

You're Jewish in your heart?

We're all Jewish in our hearts.

I think we're all Jewish in our hearts.

Yes, Bubby, I say.

I put my hand over my heart.

Yes. 

Baruch Hashem,

I'm Jewish in my heart.

***********************************

In case you need assistance with the language in this post:

Bubby - Yiddish word for Grandmother

Baruch Hashem - Hebrew for "Thank God"

Kenahora - This is Yiddish...and it's kinda hard to put my finger on exactly what it means.  It's almost like a "knock on wood" type of saying, I think, It literally translates to something like "without the evil eye" and is sometimes accompanied by spitting.

Shul - Synagogue (it's Yiddish...and apparently used primarily by Jews of Ashkenazi descent.  Thanks, Google!).

Shabbos - Jewish sabbath.  Technically, because it is the Sabbath, Jews aren't supposed to use electricity or do any "work" Friday evening through Saturday evening (hence her comment that she's not supposed to be watching television).

"For the thing there"....this is just a phrase that my grandmother tags on to nearly everything she says.

Day 20: That love is legal

Okay...this poem took a long time to write.  For lots of reasons.  Some of which may be apparent when you read it.  Also, it's my 20th day in a row of writing a poem, dammit, so I'm just going with it.

I'm already an hour over into tomorrow, although I'll just adjust the time to make it look like I finished this yesterday.  'Cause I'm sneaky like that.

I am not sure why this style is what came to me.  I knew I had read a poem in this style, but it had been so long, I couldn't remember who wrote it or even what it was about (which means it has been a REALLY long time, because I'm good at remembering authors and their words).

Regardless, I finally came up with it: Alix Olson wrote a poem called "That the protagonist is always a man," which is published in Word Warriors: 35 Women Leaders in the Spoken Word Revolution.  You can also read it at the link above.  It's badass.  You should read it.  But you should read mine first.

****************************

That love is legal

That we have a #lovewins hashtag.

That the White House is lit up in rainbow colors.

That my friends react with tears of gratitude

because the Supreme Court finally does the right thing.

That my friends react with tears of gratitude

because their straight friends celebrate with them.

That the homophobes are taking to the internet in droves.

That people would threaten to kill themselves 

because other people can marry the person they love.

That the locks on the houses of my friends' love

will no longer be wedged open by injustice. 

That legal roadblocks no longer will stand

between the lips of two women, or two men.

That we can call it "marriage" and not "gay marriage."

That we can say marriage and not civil union.

That we can stop pretending civil unions were anything close to civil.

That, if they so choose, a man can say husband, and a woman can say wife.

That everyone can say "till death do us part" and know it to mean death and not

"till the hospital refuses to acknowledge our union and does not let me be with you as you are dying."

That people would threaten to move to Canada to get away from marriage equality.

That Canada has had marriage equality for 10 years.

That because I am not in a relationship

and have not clearly declared my sexuality

everyone assumes I am straight.

That this assumption is not entirely accurate.

That because of this assumption,

I am given a choice as to whether to celebrate.

That I am given as choice as to whether to join in this fight.

That I choose to celebrate.

That I choose to fight.

That everyone can legally marry

and yet no one's marriage has: dissolved,

gone up in literal flames, frozen over, or become unholy.

That all love is holy love.

That people are already trying to fight love.

That four Supreme Court Justices did not support love.

That Justice Scalia wrote an 8-page dissent.

That he compared the legal reasoning of this decision to "the mystical aphorisms of the fortune cookie."

That I can know

whenever I finally figure out where I stand on the Kinsey scale

my love will be known as love

and not be registered as second class.

That I know the fight's not over.

That there are surely more battles to come.

That today we take a breath

to soak in the knowledge that what we've known

in our cells and in our bones

is supported by our Constitution, which states

that love

is love

is love--

That.

Is why I am celebrating

the legalization

of love.

  

(Postscript:

And please let us remember

this battle is but one

we shall arm ourselves with victory

and justice, hope, and love.

We may be battle weary

so today we stop and breathe

but tomorrow we keep fighting

as it's justice, still, we seek).

Day 19: Rain in the vicinity

Rain in the vicinity

I sit down on the couch 

and pull up the weather app on my phone.

The home screen pops up with my location, informing me there is

"rain in the vicinity."

I look out the window -- it's not raining here,

but it must already be raining

a few miles over.

It's not raining here.

My house is cool, quiet, and dry,

with my glass of clean, cold water next to me,

I close my eyes and picture the faces

of the little guy in my office today --

it has taken him 5 weeks

to learn to hand me a picture card

as a way of asking for a bite of spaghetti,

I look in Little Guy's eyes

and try to imagine what he understood

when he was beaten at school 

so badly his arm was broken;

I talk to his father, who has tears in his eyes,

because nobody cares

about a black boy beaten in a public school

and I know:

there is rain in the vicinity.

It's not raining here.

My house smells of zucchini, cooked on the stove

with garlic, and onions, and yellow squash,

but my heart aches as I picture

the young man with sores on his mouth and lips,

he tells me,

he knows his adoptive parents have enough food,

but his bio mom taught him to eat feces

whenever he is hungry,

and now he does it when he's worried

and the way it makes him remember her,

and my stomach aches

as I hear the grief he carries in his 9 year old belly -

it's not raining here,

oh but there's rain --

there is so much rain in the vicinity.

It's not raining here --

though it's cloudy, and humid, the sky hangs heavy and low.

It's not raining here --

though the sky is dark and sits like an oppressive weight on my chest.

It's not raining here --

though there is a menacing breeze telling of what my neighbors are feeling.

It's not raining here --

but my heart weighs heavy with the knowledge

of the rain 

in the vicinity. 

Day 18: Things that don't suck

I can't do it tonight, guys.  I just can't.  So I'm totally cheating.

This idea is one I borrowed from poet Andrea Gibson -- I believe she has a poem titled "Things that don't suck."  I periodically post a list of "things that don't suck" on Facebook.  Earlier this week, a whole list of friends jumped in on the game.

Here is our list of things that don't suck, turned into a poem.  It's the most I could poem tonight.

Things that don't suck: A crowdsourced poem

Sunshine. Blue skies. Cool breezes in front of thunderstorms.  Puppy kisses.  Naps.  Tiny scratchy kitten tongues.  The fact that most people are good.

Blueberries.  Ice cream.  Granola bars.  Bananas that are juuuuuuuuuust right.  Friends who invite you to stay for dinner.  Sour cherries.  Salt and vinegar chips.  Water when you are really thirsty.  Perfectly ripe peaches.  Milky Way Midnight bars.  Avocado cobb salad.  Snowballs.  Special edition thin mint crunch bars.  Papaya.  Homemade cheese steaks for dinner.

Air conditioning.  Birdsongs and a good breeze.  Good things pulled from nowhere when you're scraping bottom.

Professional packers.  Freecycle.  Soft t-shirts on harsh days.  Birthdays.  Blue pens and brightly colored index cards.  Car tires without puncture wounds. The little plastic sheaths at the end of shoelaces that keep them from unraveling.  Amazon music playlists.  Kittens.  The fact that the little plastic sheaths on shoelaces are called aglets.  Naps, again.  Celebrating the little things.

Kids:
calling
smiling
hugging
loving in spite of mistakes
not vomiting
discovering
waking you
giggling
talking about turtles
having boogers on their hands.

Friends who make you think.  True friends.  New friends feeling comfortable enough to drop the f-bomb.   Coffee dates with old friends.  Texts.  Dogs.  Wagging tails.  Community.    

Pictures of baby otters.  The fact that otters save mollusk cracking rocks in a flap of skin.  Hiking.  Baby chuckles.  The Buddha.  Random good "crazy but true" news stories.  Knitting waiting for you at home.

Beautiful things.  Cheap things.  Free things.  Blooming flowers.  The sounds of a creek when it hits the rocks.  Hugs.  Purring cats.  Clean water on demand.  The way people keep trying despite difficult circumstances.  Rain on the roof when you're warm and dry.  Sunshine, again.  And naps.