WHAT GLORY THE NATURE OF WOMAN
Lichen shadowing
Accentuating
As green multiplies
On dull grey bark.
And sipping across
To the tops of the cliffs
Of the carved expansion
Changing size and shape
With growth and age.
Always giving,
Providing food or sheltering
For other life
​
Women, like those trees
That never stop changing,
Are always expanding,
Renewing, in different ways.
​
The ultimate betrayal of ego
is to give
Over
To life. ​
​As with raw clay
The potential is the
Ultimate goal.
And maybe why the feminine
Was worshiped long ago.
Without submitting
To life
There is only a death inside the skin
Building walls within
And without our lives,
And in regard to
Our influence In the lives of others.
Women are the juxtaposition.
That flexibility of change
Of hard and soft
Sweet and salty
Give and take.
What glory,
To be born
A woman.
Wanting / Not Wanting
we could not fill the silence between us
neither of us could voice the meaning
of fidelity
nor love, nor passion
only look at each other
and choke on our
symmetrical apologies
we could only love the person
not the self
not the vision, the image we wanted
because that was impossibility
I wanted to make love to you and with you
without touching
loving without touching
without the stain of his touch
without the feel of him —
in my mind
when you touched me —
and I could not
I wanted to hold you and have you
hold me, enfold me in your arms
and nuzzle your mouth against
my neck, my throat, my breasts
without the memory of his
enfolding, holding,
touching
and I could not.
RAGE
The retch of his touch
the scrape and claw of his nails
reminds me again and again
eluding him
is an illusion —
even after the fact.
The ragged breath on my neck,
the rub on my bruised nipples, gags
me; keeps me in a limbo
of wanting and not wanting;
needing and receding
from what I need
to free myself
from him,
from his affliction
My self-hate became the raging river
of his hot breath on my neck,
the fury of wild horses let loose
from their penned stalls;
became the resentment of life
lived by surviving,
not vexation, nor indignation, but
RAGE
hot, blinding, unsettling rage
and I could not
live on.
%20(19).png)
in love with the fire spinner on the creaking platform
(every man who assaults me comes to me like a dream)
i stand below the fire spinner in the crowd and listen to the stranger speak about us. the
stranger is a big man, with little teeth. he tells me how small she looks. and how young. he
tells me this and i know he says, she. and he knows he means me. (i dream that i am only an
ear, an eye, an aching, and she is the blue bottom of a freshly dipped wick).
the fire spinner sweeps the well-loved platform with her feet, dust catching and unsettling in
the red lights at her ankles. the stranger tests the space behind me and i cannot feel him but
(i dream that the fire swims behind him and that she warns me of his presence with her slow crawl and slower creak).
he presses a hard, dry hand into my back and i stiffen, my eyes flitting from platform to fire.
you’re just a baby, he says. because it isn’t a question. (i dream that she holds her hand out
to the crowd for me to take and) i fold an ear down by the corner and move closer in to
witness her toss the air and capture its crackling heat.
he slides around me like hardening wax. he asks, how is she so brave? i tell him she must be wearing cotton and not polyester. i watch her swing a blazing baton around her elbow and (i
dream that the baton is me). he asks if i am wearing cotton or polyester. i wish she would
meet my eyes and (i dream that she holds me up, leaking white gas and kerosene).
he asks about our leather boots, our exposed midriff, our bare skin. (i dream that she swings
me around her shoulders and) i answer, to be safe is to be tight to the body. he melts to be
close to my body. he tells us we are smart for our age, and that we must know a lot about
many things. (i dream that we are fed and fueled, and our sparks are unforgiving).
i itch to climb the platform, to feel her growing hissing blue. he tells us to guess his age and
so i do. i tell myself he is too quiet, too slow, and i would rather be afraid. (i dream that she
teaches me to ignite myself and i am thrown, sizzling, out of reach). he asks us where we
live and if we are new here. i answer because i have forgotten how to leave.
she makes a show of fumbling, and the platform wanes as she coaxes out its every creak. (i
dream to be vanquished) and he makes a show of hearing nothing but the bouncing metal
and her bouncing feet. (i dream that he leans in and threatens to skewer me over the
torches). she leans in and sucks the air from the torches.
he asks us to be nice for him. and i ask to be a bloody kill instead of a slowly roasting feast. he
tells us we are the prettiest something, and (i dream that he touches my charred body so that i can finally be at peace, and before the platform collapses, i dream that) the fire spinner reaches down to dip her flame, and she blesses me with the kindest darkness that i have ever seen.
in the reflection of the window
i watch the mother wave her arms above her head for the trolley. she runs and
runs and excuses herself onto its platform as it stops for her on the road before the real stop. she
thanks and thanks and holds her little boy in warm, dark arms. this is the place, she says. it’s
eleven stops. real ones. the rounds of her cheeks nuzzle against his tiny, scrunched face. the
trolley’s green and yellow edges tuck them both in.
L texts: I was thinking about you
i dismiss it.
the mother tucks imaginary hair behind the boy’s ears, her hand gliding back to scratch his
shaved head. the air warms despite the lack of sun inside and i begin to count the stops. one.
two. something about public transportation makes it a good place to cry— no. not good,
easy.
L texts: I had a nightmare last night about it
L texts: *you
the mother looks out the window. i feel my chest tighten under her atmosphere. its
protection. an ardent gaze. sometimes it is hard to say what you really mean. what i
really mean is, L started checking up on me after i got roofied on South Beach. he told me
that night that he was so scared, holding me, that he almost called his mom. he said that he
was so angry when i started to cry.
when the little boy stirs, the mother coos softly near his ear. he fights a giggle with a forced,
knitted frown. her yellow blouse crinkles as she pulls his kicking legs firmly into the seat. i
check outside for something shining because i can feel it. so bright.
L texts: are you okay?
i said i’m not angry. nine. ten. i can’t tell you how many times. the mother squeezes the
little boy and begins to bounce him on her legs as they approach their stop. i lean my damp
face on the arm that has been up the whole time.
what i really mean is: i wait with my fingers on the pull string for eleven jolts, the doors
swinging each time out and in. the air warmer with each entrance, heavier with each exit, until
the little boy and his mother pass through them, taking it all out.
what i mean is: i wish i could call my mother, i’m afraid to call anyone.
what i mean is: when i’m barely lucid after passing out, L calls an Uber instead.
what i mean is: when the doors close and reopen without them, my arm recedes. i tuck my
hands into the cracks and fold myself into the plastic leather cushion of my seat. the trolley
moves on and the glass becomes sharper from the sun. how it has been removed from me,
some motherly heat. cold collects under my chin, my knees, the black rubber floor tracks.
what i mean is: i am far past home by the time i dare to reach back up, and something aches
as i pass through the doors. an hour back down the sidewalk.
what i mean is: i text L back. the air still frigid with exit. my body a small pill, lost in the
crack of the seat. waiting for another stop.
Dummy
Pouting, feeling cheated, motived by
the terror of being alone, adrift and
rudderless, the enraged Ventriloquist
overcame disappointment in the new
Dummy that failed to perform properly.
He retrieved the old Dummy from
the closet shelf where he tossed her
a decade ago. He was done with her.
She was not the young lively thing
she had been. No longer the plump,
delicious girl he devoured in delight.
Weak and fragile, old and sad, her
costume faded and threadbare, her face
paint crazed and dull with age, there
was not much left of her. Though he
was entitled to a shiny new Dummy
to latch onto, drain the life from and
discard, at his age there would be no
more. He would take what he could get.
He was desperate. All of his life
he had devoured one Dummy after
another. He had his “pick of all the
lovelies.” In silence he cried bitter
tears. “My needs. My needs. My
needs” he pleaded. Creating a trauma
bond he toyed with them. Speechless
without him. Only one bided her time.
​
He throttled the old Dummy’s neck.
He grasped her upper arms and shook
her torso. She moaned. He continued
to cuff her about the head in an attempt
to revive what little life might be left,
to own her, to once again throw his voice,
to make her speak the words he needed
to hear, to tweak the wires and stroke the
keys, to force her to play a familiar part.
She will mouth his lies to every audience.
No one will see the hidden Entity at times
visible only in a sidelong glance, or exposed
in otherworldly tissue protruding through
a weak seam, an odd unnatural bump moving
beneath its shirt. No one will hear the
dissonant hiss, snarl and growl seeping
through clenched teeth the Ventriloquist
had appropriated from some extinct beast.
She owned him. Without her, he was nothing.
2014
Free Flight
Tomcats toy with the birds
they’ve mortally wounded.
I saw it happen on my patio
one summer afternoon. I was
young. I knew she needed me
I scared him away, lifted
the valiant war-torn bird,
now too weak to resist, laid
her in a cardboard box lined
with a soft towel and placed
the box on a small table
in the downstairs bathroom
under the sunny south window.
I slid a heating pad beneath.
​
From her safe enclosure
she could see the sky. The
view may fill her with visions
of a flight to safety that should
have been. I left her be in peace.
When I returned she was
motionless. She had inched
her broken body toward
the warmth before her final flight.
Decades passed. Unaware
I had constructed a safe enclosure
within the confines of the greater
cage where the predator toyed
with me. Certain terror and
hopelessness weakened me
and assured my continued
captivity, the predator left me be.
But my wounds healed. I regained
strength. One morning, arising
from the marital bed, as I
descended the staircase
to begin another day of surrender
with thoughts only upon survival,
a window open before me.
Blue skies appeared.
And I flew away.
2024​
%20(1).png)
Cupid's Arrow
Cupid’s arrow struck
your heart
and sent you after me
like Apollo after Daphne.
I turned into a tree
every time you touched me,
but it didn’t stop you.
You stabbed
your fingernails under
my bark, snapped off
my branches as you
scaled toward the sky
you claimed as yours.
You dug down
to my roots and
ripped them free.
You turned the arrow
you claimed to be from god
into an axe
and splintered your way
to my heartwood.
You ripped your heart out trying to possess mine.
I teetered on the edge
of collapse;
a tree isn’t heard
falling in the forest
even if it screams on the way down.
But I scattered
my wood into
flower petals and helicopter seeds
that blew away from you,
leaving you alone
in the forest with a hole
for a heart and an axe
built from what you called
love.
Childhood Friends to Lovers
I’m not supposed to miss you.
The hole you left in my life
is supposed to be filled with nothing but hate
for your name, face, and what you did.
And it is, but there are bubbles of something else,
like the carbonation in sparkling water,
a sneeze of fruit without the sweetness.
They sting the back of my throat,
and I miss the parts of you that didn’t hurt.
The companionable silence while we built
Legos or completed puzzles.
The excited exchanges of our favorite parts
of Star Wars or Percy Jackson.
Humorous insults tossed
when card games turned competitive.
Lightsaber fights in the basement
and commentary whispered in the back of church.
The way you listened with a soft smile
while I babbled about marine life or fairytales.​
The way you yelped when you saw spiders
and begged me to kill them for you.
It was the only time I killed spiders
instead of relocated them.
I grieve the spiders I killed for you
as much as I grieve the you I could’ve loved
and the parts of myself you killed.
I watch childhood friends to lovers on the screen,
and see the ghosts of me and you.
Your ghost morphs into a monster
that rips mine to shreds.
The fiction has a happy ending,
and I remember our plot twist,
how budding romance turned horror movie.
The worst part of it all is that
if you had listened when I said no,
someday I probably would’ve said yes
and we could’ve been
childhood friends to lovers.
%20(10).png)
No Mercy
There was always something different about my brother. His loud laugh and bowlegs
ran too fast for his own good. After we’d fight, he’d hide as far as he could from our father’s
hard hands. The wind whisked underneath autumn leaves, and my brother howled beside dead
trees. One dark winter after dinner, my father’s softer hands opened the Gospel. He’d read
scriptures to give us “Jesus dreams.” Because he demanded that we believe and forgive him if we
crossed his path on a bad day. So, my brother and I kept our bloodied distance, nursed the red
marks on our butts and backs and learned to quiet his shout. But it was our hearts that hurt worse,
and every prayer that went unheard. The big man was too busy to fly down from storm clouds
and intercept the next crack across our thin bodies.
My uncle mailed a tapestry of The Savior to our house when he served in Nam. I kissed the silky
threads of that sweet Jesus weave, hoping he’d bestow mercy on me. One night, after a fight with
my mother, my father slipped into my bedroom and took down my underpants and jeans, ignored
my pleas to please leave, and repeatedly slapped any sense of self-loathing back. He left the
room quietly while I wept the memory away. Nine years later, an angered husband punched my
arm to spare my face, leaving me silent in the cold bed, my body burning red. A few days later,
my brother saw the bruise and said I must have deserved it. Yes, I replied, programmed to hide
lies because it was the only answer I could honestly give.
%20(3).png)
THAT NIGHT
He was on top of me
twice my age,
twice my weight,
and now –
with no underwear,
as I was too,
remove for massage, he’d said.
Isolated farm boy,
Socially inept,
what did I know
of intent?
He, an acquaintance,
far from home,
stopped for the night,
mounted me
and asked for lube.
I froze, paralyzed:
What? What? WHAT?
The handle of a shovel,
hoe, or garden rake
entered me:
OH, GOD!
It HURTS! It HURTS!!
He finished, kissed my back,
returned to his bed.
Next morning…
I still felt him inside.
​
~ Previously published in Ichnographical: 173
