Thoroughly Modern

Functioning, managing,

coping, doping up a little

to meet the challenges.

Working up to feeling

better with the help of medications

that rattle in the bottles

in the bottom of your purse.

Warnings, indications…

the side affects of faking

better mental health

so you can talk about

coherently the things that

you run on about.  Hiding the

important stuff between

the chatter, babble really,

of all that you need help with,

but won’t get.  Weakly feign

at being stronger, long day and

growing longer—you handle it until

the children fall asleep. Wait for your husband

to drawback from your impassive shoulder

 so you can sleep the fitful sleep that

you looked forward to all day.

Little Girl Early

Little girl early on the bus

Folded up in your mama’s lap

You are sneakers,

And colt legs, long brown hair

And freckled nose

You are elbows tucked

Into the space between your knees

And shadow of puple fleece coat

You are nodding head early

Against your mama’s chest

You are sunlight falling on your face

Denim and lace settled deeply

Into the early bounce and sway

The bus holds its breath

Until the next stop.

Just as you dream, it sighs “wake up!”

No Light Will Mark

blue heron gray sky

early yet  no risen sun

marks the day 

jag and arch of low shadow lifting night

above dark breaking waves

hymns of shells hiss

urged-up prizes laid by

the sea  homaging the altar-shore  

bow and back away  alters shore

worships alone   alone

except for me       and sky

and seagulls cry  alone alone

sea catches in my heel-print cup sieves to empty

someday hair streaked

blue heron gray   no light

to mark my arch and jag

of low shadow lifting

over leaden breakers

First Breath

My round-eyed wonder

absorbs through the blue curtain,

thin as reality, static

electricity that generates

this invisible, crackling spark of awe. 

Baby fingers crooked,

holding onto nothing at first

except water like air,

then holding onto everything

in the shape of my finger.

The lifeline’s cut,

love like a rope reels in the child.

Spring

It is too cold to leave my bed these mornings
I linger but not too late in the day
Black dog makes the leap
Then settles down beside me
As natural as if the bed was his
As if I had called him up when all I did was stir
The light is still so dim in the room that
When he turns his head towards me I cannot see his eyes
As morning light filters in, he studies my face
He seems to be contemplating my disease
He seems to be messaging me a great amount of sympathy with his stare
This morning he lifted his paw and landed it heavily on my chest
Like a hand, like a bridge

Nesting Dolls

I know the generations
Clicked them together   safely  tucked
them, inside the other, womb to womb
 
Open Bertha  to find Mildred   to find Kay  
to find Susan   to find Angelina  to find Grace

Good little wooden women, painted on smiles

See how stoic the old ones are, 
they learned
to sit still when tangled hair was combed,
learned not to gossip, learned to hiss in a quiet voice,
learned to eat burnt toast (and be grateful for it) 
so the children would not have to,
and so that nothing was wasted.

They whispered to their children
don't wake him up
don't make him mad
don't be selfish
don't be loud
don't be proud
take the beating without moving away
from the belt
and, by example,
only lie to grown-ups when they cannot face the truth.

But the young ones are trying
a new way of being.

Synesthesia

When I was 6, numbers had colors
And colors had feel and taste.

Silly girl, fat girl, stupid girl--
That isn't true!
Not according to the text book.
They are monochrome, they are black on white
Never blent to gray even when married for a sum.
To make matters worse,
4 and seven were tricksters and always changing
Places in my mind.  Is it Seventy-4 or Forty-7?
Answer!  Sit up straight and pay attention.

O little girl in the picture frame, aren't you pretty
For a moment, perched posture perfect
On the little black and white pony,
Wearing a cowboy hat and frilly dress,
Feet in the stirrups, smiling toward the camera,
The sky is gray flannel and the house behind you- tell me-
Does it have have four or 7 window panes and how many
Dimensions can you explain now that you know
That colors do not breathe and numbers never lie.

Something I will always remember as the sharp
Sting of a ruler on my hands.