Because I know too much you look like her, so instead of blaring my horn I stop and smile and let you pull out into the crowded lot in front of me
You’re sweet and apologetic in gestures, so I smile even more and nod because I know too much, and I owe you — or her — a thousand kindnesses in place of apologies that have long since gathered dust in the corner of both our stories
Because I know too much about your suspicions and my jealousies, your patience and mine, I think this gesture now in this parking lot with this stranger might be atonement, might be appreciation — or love — a precious light in the shadows of our shared secret
The physical therapist shows me exercises, but I tell her I am Stretched Too Thin ENOUGH ALREADY! So she digs into the mechanics of my Bracing for the Worst and attempts to allay the places where I am Holding on for Dear Life — god bless their white-knuckle grip and control efforts — INCOMING! My shoulders, for example, find comfort near my ears these days perhaps to hear which of the Invading Forces will surge today, while my back has decided it — and it alone — will hold me upright and steady so as not to fall headfirst into the Thick of It All; apparently my glutes are sitting this one out, and lord knows my knees won’t hold us up — they’ve just about given up or out, having carried the burden of this ALL OF THIS for way too long; even the feet are fed up FUCK YOU! says my big toe, the Last Line of Defense; the only Saving Grace these days is way up at the top where words and ideas and creative Escape Routes are lighting up the sky!
the underside of bittersweet in the last days of fall
red is American holly if the jays have been temperate,
winterberry and spicebush, the staghorn sumac
it’s the pointed leaf of a maple red maple, aptly named
and the flash in the splash of the painted turtle diving
red is the tap tap tap of the woodpeckers, there
and the robins who may have stayed too long
red is burning bush invading the woods,
it’s native wintergreen and partridge berry
red is abundance and wild, decoration enough
CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS IN NATURE PRESERVES
Think about the following before decorating a public tree:
While plastic ornaments are cheap and easy to obtain, they produce their own set of issues when left outside. Any ornaments that fall off the tree can easily end up in a waterbody and will never degrade in any environmentally friendly manner. The sun will make them brittle, and they can break apart into smaller and smaller pieces. Animals can eat the plastic and even pass it along to their offspring. This can be fatal for them both.
Ornaments made of glass or other breakable materials can shatter and find their way into the landscape. Again, this presents issues for wildlife. It also makes cleanup efforts more difficult and dangerous. No one wants to step on or pick up pieces of thin, broken glass.
All the ornaments, tinsel, garland, and tree skirts you use can quickly end up on the ground where they’re no longer fun and sparkly holiday ornaments. Now they’re in the watershed where they can cause greater problems for our water system. It’s best to leave these on your tree at home.
If it’s not cleaned up promptly, what was once a whimsical holiday embellishment is now a garish eyesore in a matter of a few weeks. If you’ve ever walked past one of these neglected scenes after the holidays, you know how they look. Shiny tinsel is now faded by the sun and left half draped on the ground. The ornaments have mostly fallen off, leaving one or two sad remnants clinging to the tree. It’s an embarrassing scene, one that belies the natural beauty of the area.
In the movie, the woman is sad and she curls into the man for comfort and he wraps his arms around her and pulls her close and I remembered — briefly — when you used to do that for me — comfort me — now all you do is enrage me — you and your weak minded hypocritical ignorant politics — and instead of curling into you I want to tear off your skin, and bludgeon you with a stick, and run over you with my car at a very high speed, and I find myself wishing that instead of loving you I’d suffocated you one night with a pillow and…oh was that out loud?
She arrives with a flounce, a bell-ringer at the door in a purposeful manner, and before I even see the graven image hung around her neck I know what I am dealing with, it’s in her posture — the parochial way she holds herself as she quietly tsks tsks tsks at books on the shelf, the way she nods when she finds a kindred spirit points to one up high on a shelf “He’s Good,” she says out loud and I know it’s a capital G, like her god. I feel like I should sit up straight and uncross my legs proper but my own talismans give me away before I can adjust myself; I want to tell her we are all made with love but she averts her eyes and walks right past, the crucifix seemingly larger with each breath.
He’s talking about London, shows me his collection of vintage rock and roll posters, slides close to tell me his stories and his warm breath stirs me despite what I’ve learned about this kind of trespass, so I lean in for a while listen up close and pretend I have every right I deserve this I need this press up against the idea until the alarm goes off for a fourth or fifth time and I have to shake off the thought that slow delicious thought and start the day.
I’m re-binging Grey’s Anatomy after all, from the top all 435 episodes
Call it guilty pleasure comfort food insulation election distraction
Anyhow…
he shows up as Derek Shepherd, and he is the person I remember warm and charming and happy and he loves me
It feels green and shady like home familiar and safe and where I’m supposed to be
Until I offer him a cup of coffee and he says “That’s OK, we have some in the car” and I know she’s outside waiting
I mean, she’sfreaking Isabella Rossellini except she’s Zoë Saldaña Thandie Newton tall, thin, athletic academic catholic the anti-me in every way possible
I feel in my heart this incredible disappointment as I search methodically for the old worn copy of Gulliver’s Travels that he’s asked to borrow
and I can’t help but wonder even in that dreamspace why he looks like Derek Shepherd, why he wants to read Jonathan Swift and why the book I pull from the shelf is my hardcover copy of Walden instead
it’s my favorite, the one with the margin notes from my Dad in pencil, ALL CAPS
it was one of the things they had in common except my Dad’s notes were smart and thoughtful, and “Derek’s” were critical mean and pedantic
As I walk him to the elevator and say goodbye, again, I realize how easily I am moving, how my body feels just fine, familiar and safe and where I’m supposed to be
and while I might feel disappointed still, sometimes, I am happy to have been set free loosened from what bound me there in that small, small place where I could hardly ever breathe Nobody knows where they might end up Nobody knows Nobody knows where they might wake up Nobody knows
If you like this poem, you’ll love the poems in my new book…
The review says my poems are accessible and I know that is a gold star on something so easily otherwise considered not something one reads on the fly
though quite the contrary, one does or one can I do anyhow keep a dog-eared volume within easy reach for a metered pause now and then and again
The volumes change-out of course famous old school to popular lowercase he said, she said, now more they saids, collections and anthologies and the short-but-sweet chaps
Which is not to say they all get gold stars some enhance my furrowed brow, deepen the lines that live there, make me close-up a book with a clap some even, I confess, make me feel small stupid, insipid, imposter
Like the time that Rogue Poet infiltrated my writing group and made us all feel somehow lacking somehow not good enough somehow not even poets
Like the time the Queen Bee sat in the front row and watched the little drone vibrate so much the mic shook and the poems fell sharp and hard to the ground and her look — just her look — said you arenot something one reads at all ever, not even on the fly
I wonder sometimes if they were real, the Rogue and the Queen Bee, and not some amalgamation of my self and all of her inner critics — you are a fabrication, imitator, mutt with no pedigree for poetry stop now please
But someone — or someones — think I am deserving of a gold star 5 stars sometimes too with accolades and atta girls and just enough kindness to make me feel momentarily monumentally poetic.
Photo by ArtHouse.
If you like this poem, you’ll love the poems in my new book…
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