RETURNING HOME

On the black wingtips of a plane
flying eastbound in winter,
ice slowly clings to metal.

Storm clouds butting up
against the rudder,
stuttering warnings
of impending doom,
but the lift is not hindered
by the force of nature.

She is returning home.

Tombstone regrets and
posthumous amends,
her twisted thoughts
tangle like her grandmother's
necklaces which gather age
in a manila envelope
under the mattress
of her dying mother's bed.

She mumbles beginnings
of prayers she feels
obligated to speak,
but fails to complete
for lack of faith that God
recognizes her voice
or cares that she
has hours yet to fly
and only minutes to
get there in time.

Intent on delivering
goodbyes and apologies,
she travels homeward
toward the hills where
her bare feet once ran
upon the same clay earth
that soon will be hollowed out
in a pit large enough to
contain both casket
and contrition.

She closes eyes,
tears filling throat
and coating her face
like ice on wing.
She takes breath,
taps right foot slowly
to the rhythm of old song
her Mother often sang
while hanging sheets
and socks on rope clothesline
on August mornings:

"Fly the ocean
in a silver plane,
see the jungle
when it's wet with rain...
just remember
'til you're home again,
you belong to me."

Opens eyes/
overhead light reflecting in
tears which fall slowly like
the large snowflakes
dancing about the plane,
she stares into
the dark expanses
outside her window.

On the black wingtips of a plane
flying eastbound in winter,
ice slowly clings to metal.

Storm clouds butting up
against the rudder,
stuttering warnings
of impending doom,
but the lift is not hindered
by the force of nature.

She is returning home.

1984

It was was 1984.

Sitting Indian style
atop the
middle-of-the-road
hump
on Mainsteet
in small town
Illinois.

I was popping tar
like bubble wrap,
hundreds of
black circles spanning
out like grease spill blisters
under an August sun.

No shoes,
sweat leaving tracks
like spliced wires
upon my gas can red cheeks
and I was
"finding a 100 dollar bill"
happy
in a world
that was mine, alone,
to explore.

August, 1984 was
sheltered and difficult,
poor and filled with
smile inducing objects
like 25 cent bottles of
Orange Crush soda
and Vacation Bible School
and puppy love and
a sip from Bucky's
beer can and thinking
if I were nice, others
would reciprocate.

The ending of
1984 killed these
blissful moments,
slamming reality
into my core
like ribs into
bicycle handlebars,
knocking the wind
out of my lungs,
leaving me heaped
on the side of
that same road,
like the time
Chucky Bryant
picked me up
after wreck,
before he rode my bike
and a crying,
bloody-palmed
girl home.

August 1984
and he was
my temporary
hero
in a leap year
filled with pain.

I needed saved then
from that town,
that road,
that life,
myself.

My sister,
two years younger,
and I laid on the tracks
one afternoon
listening in unison
for the moaning of steel
on steel, of some distant
heaving locomotive.

We never heard that train,
but I can hear that horn
this evening/
two long, one short, one long/
approaching crossroads,
gates lowered,
lights flashing.

Move back girls,
away from tracks
just enough to feel
the breeze of passing
car upon sunburned skin
in August, 1984.

Captain Crunch,
Captain Caveman,
Oh, Captain, my Captain,
Prince and Purple Rain,
all moved me like
freight cars
on hot tracks
on afternoons
when the world
was still mine
for the exploration
in small town,
Illinois
August, 1984.

"Never again will you be capable of ordinary human feeling. Everything will be dead inside you. Never again will you be capable of love, or friendship, or joy of living, or laughter, or curiosity, or courage, or integrity. You will be hollow. We shall squeeze you empty and then we shall fill you with ourselves."

Orwellian forecast:

August, 1984.

SWALLOW

Has loving ever choked you deep
like swallows of hot cocoa,
burned you from lips to belly,
briefly sweet upon tongue,
then cooling quickly,
making you hate you took in
too much, too soon
yet left you compelled to sip
from yielding cup again
and again?

Each song we loved to
makes me hate walls,
and windows,
and you.

Alone in bed,
heart suffocated by your smile,
I hum in pitch with self-loathing,
and this love still burns me
from lips
to belly.

I hate most mornings
so I cuss the spiteful sun
until it disappears
behind buildings filled
with empty spaces.

I curse the first time I kissed you,
pressed hard against
wooden door.

Some nights I cuss often.

I am not perfect.
I hate these faults
I have adopted,
but they comfort me
when I am tortured.

But I did love you
like waking from nightmares,
like photos of the deceased
reminding us of what we've forgotten,
like laughter,
like touch,
like molten drink.

Swallowed you with abandon
held you gently,
like hot cup in hand
and I know you
remember too,
know you can not forget
the distance
from my mouth
to navel.

That was not love
nor hot drink,
but it did, at times,
quench your thirst.

You cried when the nights
ended too early,
you having pleased me
and I placed my lips
upon your tears.

It lacked the romance
I'd seen in the movies
I've forgotten the plots to.

Just felt empty,
like you drank too much of me,
left me dry.

You wet of lip
and full of my essence,
without thought to refill me.

I told you then of the time
I was 6.

Knelt my scraped,
chubby knees
upon pine needles/
hid from Mother's eyes,
whispered to the ground,

"I want the world to die,"

before I yanked cocoons
from the tree,
like the stanzas I pulled
from the inspiration
of your lips and thighs.

You failed to grasp
the connection of
moments.

COME THIS SEPTEMBER

Six years ago come this September
I gave birth to the youngest of my two daughters.
Angry and fully disgusted,
Depressed and filled with as much self-hatred
As my womb was with child,
I could not at first bring myself to look at her.

She came into the world not crying
Neither could I myself summon tears.
So instead, my sister held my newborn baby
Even as she held her opinions to herself.
I stared blankly out the window
Praying to God that I could soon die
While my sister stood there beside my bed
And cried for us all.

There are secrets women speak not of.
Some hurts we shovel away in holes
We dig with our silence
Until we have buried ourselves
In caskets we never hope to escape from.

Trapped in a darkness only penetrated
By the memories of penetrations
Which leave behind shrapnel in the form
Of new babies we are forced
To nurse like wounds which remind us
Of the battles we've endured and
The wars we could not win
Yet risked our lives and
Spread our limbs in hopes of doing so.

Some six years later,
I have slowly dug myself
Out of that grave
Escaped from the encampment
Of a past I can never change.
Have fought off the mentality
That male dominance is Biblical,
That I should be submissive
And only complain in written words
Upon paper in hidden journals.

But these days I am far from silent
And these days I fear not the truth.
I teach my daughters their options are endless,
So as to prevent the trials I've been through.

Six years ago come this September,
I gave life and birthed forth a change.
Six years ago come this September,
I stopped allowing men over me
To lay claim.

WOMAN

Braided buttered palms around fingered ribs
Internalized the potion I scorned
Faced war with projectile love
And spewed grace out in buckets.

Gripped calloused red lines
Stripped the clock of its hands
Waited without the pomposity
Of demand to an end.

Transcended teachings to absolve
Self.
Patient for the revelation
While kind to the process
Faithful to my essence
So to comfort the blow of truth.

Carried torture in mission
Swollen deep but distended
Hidden by hand shakes and grins.
Decades dark with tunneled transitions.
Gloved with smooth touches
That reaped rewards of failures.

Then testament birthed oneness
Eternity explained with kiss
Pain rid of value.

Admittance of recklessness for not
Having known
Forgiveness but from learning
To live after death of self
Has begun.

Being simply/
Being worn down/
Being open/
Being humbled/
Being taught/
Becoming teacher/
Being child matured
Into this being,
I've become
Woman.

REVELATION

Tossed myself into shards of a lullaby
I never knew the lyrics to.
Hummed the chorus
And cried for a lonesome
I could never verbalize
Yet aptly described
In expressions unseen.
Then rocked myself until
Morning came.

Found that it took drowning,
Body swept away in the undertow,
To swallow just enough
To quench my need for compassion.

Stumbled into a stack of wood
Laughed at the absurdly obvious realization
That perhaps it was just fire
I'd been lacking all along.

Wayside friends lacking names
By which to attach memories to,
But hers, I could never forget.
Neither could I my own.

Misery slept on the pillow next to my own
Interrupting tranquil dreams to remind me
Of the realities of life I ignored
Until I no longer was able to rest easy.

Prodded me until
I found the right person
While traveling the wrong path
Drank the half empty glass
And enjoyed the clarity of
The glass for its beauty
Rather than the utility
Of The Vessel.

If I weren't alive, alone
I would ask
If water always tasted this divine,
Though I know for me,
It just never did.

SINK

I wear a cloak,
of sorts,
woolen -
gray, aged hue
a bit irritating
to pink skin
but warm to me
on frigid morn,
knelt in prayer
for companionship.

I admit
I have
whispered my own name,
eyes closed to
invoke remembrances
of lovers
who spoke it
with lust on lips.

Bodies mauled by
touches,
sunken
and thrown.

Bottled message,
scratched with
broken pencil.
Sweet contents
long since sipped
to ease
the parch of tongue,
but no ocean
to toss
the vessel in.

Filled sink,
cold water,
bottle floats.
I revel at
training
it to swim.

I humor at this,
yet continue
before
I photograph
the foolish scene.
The curves and colors
pleasure me.