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On teaching pale women how to color their walls…

***Photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash

Oh.  How many times I’ve heard, “I wish we could take you home with us” while swaddling a newborn, positioning a lactating breast, counting pushes, and smelling the scent of new life.  By the way…it is an earthy smell; a muted sweet scent of all outdoors (quite interesting when you think about it).  Oh.  How many times I’ve thought, “I am my own home.  I’ve always had to make a home in me.  You should learn to do the same.  And have the courage to inhabit it. Without.  Help.”

Besides, the man of my choosing is coming to paint my kitchen a vibrant shade of green in the morning and I wouldn’t dare miss him (and I’ve been considering a mauve for the bedroom – whatcha think?).  Furthermore, I only lie my head down under roofs that motion to all the places where the guns are hidden.

We’ll talk later.  The lesson must continue at some other time.  I can smell that the Cornish-hen is ready.  I can feel the clock approaching quitting time.  And I can hear my own baby start to stir in her crib.  I left her walls nude. Perhaps her first word will be blue.  Again, I will call the man of my choosing and he will oblige to pigment yet another one of my walls with the color of oceans.

I have so much to do.  In my own home.  Perhaps I should thank you for reminding me?

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Navel

It’s a weird feeling.  Yes, ‘weird’, for lack of a better word.  This disconnect that sometimes happens between mother and daughter. To know that she was indeed your first home.  But now.  You must be home.

A plot of land.

Four walls.

A roof.

A shore for the weary.

And a lighthouse for the lost.

You can’t help it.  The urge is inherent.  You will spend forever.  Trying to build a bridge.  And the construction is louder than the destruction.  And if it wasn’t for the flames, you could both get to buildin’.

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I am Eternal…for the Time being

The poetry of my life is, in effect,

the rejection I have learned to endure.
(It’s a beautiful thing, coping with tears,
sucking them in, then breathing and living again)
Every hour, at least, I think to myself:
What is next for me to create.
And there’s always a mess, some state,
more or less, of constant re-arranging
and deciding what to keep and what to throw away.
I’ve had luck, close calls, that’s for sure,
things that have swung this way, not that.
I’m still pulsing, still breathing,
got a scar or two for the show,
and I ache but the drink helps with that.
I grizzle and belch, got a miserable frown
sometimes I stare into space and just rest
and empty my thoughts except for this one:
I have no idea what any of this means.
But why must it have meaning, a human construct,
like time, or money, or words.
It is what it is, that’s all it can be
whatever it is, to begin.
Fuck me, I’m flailing, I often intone,
as I snap back to the clunking machine.
There’s work to be done, the wheels need a grease
and the money certainly doesn’t grow on trees.
At night, when my eyes start to shut
and the breeze filters through the dark,
the earth keeps turning and
the fires of home and heart still burn.
I sleep, hope to dream, safe with the thought
that the day always seems to come back around.
I am eternal…for the time being.
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Born To It

 

Born To It

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a poem is conceived in private
much like a child
the wild, Holy consummation, all consuming
born of love
but bearing so much pain and suffering,
muffled cries, truths and lies,
sometimes the difference is hard to find.

I was born with bated breath,
fresh and clean,
once they wiped off the blood and amniotic fluid
and cut the cord
scissors like a sword
severing the most sacred connection
that I will ever know.

I was born to it
and there is no place quite like home.