Monday, February 2, 2015
Beast
“If I wanted to split you open, this
is where I’d land the ax,” he says,
tracing an invisible line
lengthwise down my skull
starting at the widow’s peak.
“It’s the perfect place to
cleave you in two.”
Like an almond, I think.
Noting the symbolism,
the mechanics.
What he doesn’t know
is that there is no nutmeat
to harvest. My innards
swept clean
like a doe
hanging from a tractor in winter,
ribs cracked open,
organs fed to the dogs
gravity pulling blood
from cold veins
into the hunter’s
wheel barrow.
Still, I let him imagine
the sound of bone
cracking, seductive
and sharp, like a hip
or the crook of an elbow
all the while wondering
what it’d be like
to satisfy the hunger
of the beast
tracing an invisible line
down my skull
starting
at the widow’s peak.
Sunday, January 25, 2015
Swamps
Seventeen
the night I parked my hand-me-down
Chevy on the gravel road
miles from the closed signs
decorating the windows
of the shops in town
stripped naked in the headlights
and ran
until the rocks and frozen corn stalks
bloodied my feet.
A baptism of
gray breath and snow
on the plains that made me
a woman.
Twenty-
three years a woman
when the mountains made me a poet.
Bummed cigarettes
and narratives
from boys with long hair
and girls with big muscles
blunt bangs and a coolness
dissolving with the youth
’round the corners
of my eyes.
Just shy of thirty,
those poems
-feasting, rotting
on the river bottom-
unravel downstream,
arrive seconds, lifetimes
before the universe explodes
as a slow trickle
a Gulf-like rupture
in the swamp that makes me
a mother.
the night I parked my hand-me-down
Chevy on the gravel road
miles from the closed signs
decorating the windows
of the shops in town
stripped naked in the headlights
and ran
until the rocks and frozen corn stalks
bloodied my feet.
A baptism of
gray breath and snow
on the plains that made me
a woman.
Twenty-
three years a woman
when the mountains made me a poet.
Bummed cigarettes
and narratives
from boys with long hair
and girls with big muscles
blunt bangs and a coolness
dissolving with the youth
’round the corners
of my eyes.
Just shy of thirty,
those poems
-feasting, rotting
on the river bottom-
unravel downstream,
arrive seconds, lifetimes
before the universe explodes
as a slow trickle
a Gulf-like rupture
in the swamp that makes me
a mother.
The Kingdom Stays in Heat
Oxytocin cannot
stop
the thirst of saber- toothed tigers
or keep millennia of ice at bay.
Wild animals and our ancestors alike
knew very little about
keeping their young alive.
The milk still lets down.
Antelope run the minute they’re born.
they have no choice, as tigers
learn soon after.
Our heads too large to hold,
there is no running from influenza
or plague-infested fleas.
The endorphins still collapse.
There is a reason wombs overflowed
the kingdom stayed in heat,
the tribes grew.
The promise of outliving our children
is three generations old
at best.
The belly still softens.
So we keep a few drops of bathwater
and the fingernail clippings
as insurance we won’t forget.
If we ever come to know
the heartache familiar
to the women who came before.
The fear still consumes.
stop
the thirst of saber- toothed tigers
or keep millennia of ice at bay.
Wild animals and our ancestors alike
knew very little about
keeping their young alive.
The milk still lets down.
Antelope run the minute they’re born.
they have no choice, as tigers
learn soon after.
Our heads too large to hold,
there is no running from influenza
or plague-infested fleas.
The endorphins still collapse.
There is a reason wombs overflowed
the kingdom stayed in heat,
the tribes grew.
The promise of outliving our children
is three generations old
at best.
The belly still softens.
So we keep a few drops of bathwater
and the fingernail clippings
as insurance we won’t forget.
If we ever come to know
the heartache familiar
to the women who came before.
The fear still consumes.
Sunday, January 4, 2015
Brakes
She tells anyone she knows
about the elevator special she once saw on PBS.
About how, if everyone selected their floors
before they got on, elevators could be thirty-three percent more efficient.
She shows them first hand, how the door close button
is a ruse to make riders feel more in control.
She abstains from sharing how the elevator structure
of the World Trade Centers contributed to hundreds of deaths.
The weight of the cables too much for one elevator.
Two, maybe three, stacked atop each other.
A lobby at the base of each, with the
panicked overflow of stairways, wall to wall.
Bone and blood into dust on impact.
Neither steel nor limb immune from the crippling.
No one wants to ponder their potential fates as one of the
twenty-seven elevator related deaths annually.
Especially as the doors are closing.
When they ask why she knows this amalgam of facts,
she mentions her fear of plummeting to death, and laughs.
Doubling back with some remark about insomnia and channel surfing.
All the while, she thinks of the difference between Otis Tufts and Elisha Otis.
About engines and brakes.
How, like her, one of them had something to lose.
about the elevator special she once saw on PBS.
About how, if everyone selected their floors
before they got on, elevators could be thirty-three percent more efficient.
She shows them first hand, how the door close button
is a ruse to make riders feel more in control.
She abstains from sharing how the elevator structure
of the World Trade Centers contributed to hundreds of deaths.
The weight of the cables too much for one elevator.
Two, maybe three, stacked atop each other.
A lobby at the base of each, with the
panicked overflow of stairways, wall to wall.
Bone and blood into dust on impact.
Neither steel nor limb immune from the crippling.
No one wants to ponder their potential fates as one of the
twenty-seven elevator related deaths annually.
Especially as the doors are closing.
When they ask why she knows this amalgam of facts,
she mentions her fear of plummeting to death, and laughs.
Doubling back with some remark about insomnia and channel surfing.
All the while, she thinks of the difference between Otis Tufts and Elisha Otis.
About engines and brakes.
How, like her, one of them had something to lose.
Sunday, October 19, 2014
They Don’t Keep
On the day you were born, we bought fruit
checked your breath
and measured time in the ripening,
the bruising.
The plums grew sour before
your eyes ever opened. The bananas softened.
You came to sleep on our chests and the apples went forgotten.
They don’t keep.
No, they don’t keep.
We bathed lengthy, foreboding baths
with water, lukewarm
and thighs,
barely pink
as the fruit soured in the cupboard.
The fermentation happened quietly.
As secret and surprising as the prayers,
on the day that you were born.
Your cry, my god, the wine.
No, they don’t keep.
Saturday, September 14, 2013
Twenty-six, Pregnant, and Bleeding
In 2004, when I first joined Facebook the status update function looked very different than it does today. Many of you will remember the rigid format, but for those unfamiliar with FB V.1, here’s the Cliffnotes version. Well, actually, any version would be Cliffnotes because explaining how it works only requires one sentence.
And here it is: Username is…[and here is where you would write what you were doing].
Example: Audrey is riding her roller blades to class.
As a result of this structure, for years I would think about my day and important life events in the third person—in “update format.” I’m certain I am not alone in this thinking. A quick look through nine years’ worth of newsfeed is evidence of this.*
Not alone in wanting to share the details of my day to day.
*Derrill is obsessed with this new Halo.
*Erykah is embarrassed to admit she loves Fifty Shades of Grey.
Not alone in figuring out how to share my vacation musings, my new job news, or my thoughts on the politics of the moment.
*Bella is LOVING this vacation. The beach is SOOOO beautiful!
*Erik is a 2005 Kansas City Teach For America corps member!!!!
*Wayne is moving to Canada if Hilary becomes President.
Not alone in pouring over the ways to profess my love for another, announce the engagement, share my excitement about the wedding.
*Ava is so love with Harry. She thanks God every day for him and prays he always loves her.
*Mabel is GETTING MARRIED! She said “YES!!!!”
*John is so blessed. Today, he gets to marry the woman of his dreams.
Not alone in contemplating the best way to announce the pregnancy (I mean, come on, it has to be creative, unique, and hilarious!)
*Amanda is PREGNANT! No, for real this time, she’s pregnant.
*[insert photo of sonogram] Robert is going to be a DAD!!!!!!!
*[insert photo of pregnancy test] Michael is aware that shit just got real.
Not alone in announcing the loss of a baby
*Audrey is having a miscarriage.
Oh wait, no. Completely alone.
From the beginning of our pregnancy, my husband and I decided we were going to embrace the vulnerability work we’d both been doing in our lives and share the news right away. After all, telling our parents and closest friends about the pregnancy would not make me any more likely to miscarry. To date, I’ve yet to find a study that correlates feeling—really feeling—the joy of pregnancy and an increased risk of miscarriage. Plus, if something did go wrong, we knew we’d need a support system. Just in case, you know.
And then the blood came.
Followed by the fear.
The sadness.
The rage.
The loneliness.
The disappointment of having to tell an expectant set of grandparents that your body failed. The shame of watching your friends and people like Snooki carry babies to term, and knowing you didn’t. You couldn’t this time.
The imminent anxiety of next time. Already. Of lying in a hot shower, begging the painful cramps to end, and panicking about this happening again. Already.
And finally: this call to compassion.
The luxury we have this lifetime, this go ‘round, is our ability to connect in real time (see Facebook anecdotes above) with those who need to know they’re not alone, when they need to know it most. That is, in fact, what drives us all in the end--connection. To know we’re not alone. Loving Halo, moving to Canada, roller blading. We just want to know someone else gets it.
Particularly, when the shame, fear, and vulnerability washes over us. We just want to know that we’re still enough. Still worthy of love and belonging. Compassion does that for us. Compassion is the verb that not only celebrates the weddings, the love, the awesome meal posted to Facebook and Instagram, BUT also comforts the pain and sorrow. Compassion lets us know it’s just as safe to feel scared as it is to experience the joy you get from that kickass engagement ring he designed himself.
It’s a privilege to wrap our arms around each other and be there. When it’s tough. When it’s no longer the bride, wearing white, and dancing, but the twenty-six year old, pregnant, and bleeding.
It will not be comfortable, and you will not know what to say, and that’s okay. Let me help you.
Say:
I’m so sorry. I’m here for you.
Do not say:
It will be okay. It happens to 1 out of every 3 first pregnancies, and 1 out of 5 additional pregnancies.
Here’s why:
Rationalizing pain minimizes it. Trust me, from the moment the first drop of blood appeared until the doctor confirmed the loss, I was on the internet searching for answers, statistics, and hope. I know how common it is thanks to anonymous women on pregnancy message boards and Wikipedia. I don’t need to know how common it is from you. I need to hear you say that you connect with me on some level. “I’m so sorry” tells me that you understand pain, even if you can’t comprehend the situation.
Say:
It’s not your fault. You are allowed to feel devastated, but you don’t deserve to feel ashamed.
Do Not Say:
Don’t feel bad. It’ll happen when the time is right.
Here’s why:
It’s not my fault. Period. I didn't jinx it by telling people. I make it happen by worrying too much. It's not karma because I'm pro-choice. See rationale above-I’m an internet message board expert at this point-I understand biologically why it happened (chromosomal abnormality, most likely). I don’t need you telling me not to feel bad. I’m allowed to feel disappointed, heartbroken, sad, angry, etc... but, I don’t DESERVE to feel ashamed. And, that is where it gets tricky. Shame thrives in silence, and unless we start talking about the loss in our lives, I’ll forever feel alone. Inept compared to Snooki. Unless you’ve been there, you don’t know what it’s like to call your family and share the happiest news of your life, only to call them 8 days later with the most devastating. Joy is no longer untainted, it’s embarrassing to have been so unabashedly euphoric, only to have it not work out. Especially when it feels like your fault. Remind me it’s not my fault, protect me from shame, and then let me feel whatever I want to feel, goddamn it.
Say:
Take as much time as you need.
Do No Say:
You’re young. You can try again. You’ll have a baby soon.
Here’s why:
I’m terrified. What if this happens again? Once, I can rationalize as being normal. Twice, there must be something wrong with me. I can't even think about trying again yet. What if I have to break my parents’ hearts again? They shouldn’t have to worry about me. My sister shouldn’t make my sadness her burden. I need time to process this all. The nine month processing period between pregnant and baby is there for a reason. The overnight pregnant to not, is far more jarring. Don’t tell me I’m young and I can try again soon. To be honest, that just makes it worse. Miscarriage doesn’t happen to twenty-six year olds. Let me rephrase that, twenty-six year olds don’t talk about their miscarriages. In my mind, that means it doesn't happen to anyone else. I’m scared I’m the only one. The defective one—and I’m not. I need to know it's okay to take some time to make sense of it all.
Today, I challenge you to acknowledge the culture of silence and shame is not okay. Women and their partners deserve to know that they’re safe during what is quite possibly the most vulnerable time in their lives. Gone should be the days when women and their partners talk about their loss only once they’ve carried a healthy baby to term; as if miscarriage is a failure only to be spoken of after reveling in success. The truth is, to be entirely present, to be vulnerable, and to trust that others can and will support you not just in joy, but in sorrow, is a right belonging to all those willing to show up and accept it.
To be alive today is to be afforded a unique opportunity in history to broaden your reach of compassion, don’t let fear silence you. Reach out to those willing to be vulnerable with the world, share your sorrow, and trust that others will be there when you need them. I will be.
I’m so sorry. You’re not alone. Take as much time as you need.
*real status updates, names have been changed.
And here it is: Username is…[and here is where you would write what you were doing].
Example: Audrey is riding her roller blades to class.
As a result of this structure, for years I would think about my day and important life events in the third person—in “update format.” I’m certain I am not alone in this thinking. A quick look through nine years’ worth of newsfeed is evidence of this.*
Not alone in wanting to share the details of my day to day.
*Derrill is obsessed with this new Halo.
*Erykah is embarrassed to admit she loves Fifty Shades of Grey.
Not alone in figuring out how to share my vacation musings, my new job news, or my thoughts on the politics of the moment.
*Bella is LOVING this vacation. The beach is SOOOO beautiful!
*Erik is a 2005 Kansas City Teach For America corps member!!!!
*Wayne is moving to Canada if Hilary becomes President.
Not alone in pouring over the ways to profess my love for another, announce the engagement, share my excitement about the wedding.
*Ava is so love with Harry. She thanks God every day for him and prays he always loves her.
*Mabel is GETTING MARRIED! She said “YES!!!!”
*John is so blessed. Today, he gets to marry the woman of his dreams.
Not alone in contemplating the best way to announce the pregnancy (I mean, come on, it has to be creative, unique, and hilarious!)
*Amanda is PREGNANT! No, for real this time, she’s pregnant.
*[insert photo of sonogram] Robert is going to be a DAD!!!!!!!
*[insert photo of pregnancy test] Michael is aware that shit just got real.
Not alone in announcing the loss of a baby
*Audrey is having a miscarriage.
Oh wait, no. Completely alone.
From the beginning of our pregnancy, my husband and I decided we were going to embrace the vulnerability work we’d both been doing in our lives and share the news right away. After all, telling our parents and closest friends about the pregnancy would not make me any more likely to miscarry. To date, I’ve yet to find a study that correlates feeling—really feeling—the joy of pregnancy and an increased risk of miscarriage. Plus, if something did go wrong, we knew we’d need a support system. Just in case, you know.
And then the blood came.
Followed by the fear.
The sadness.
The rage.
The loneliness.
The disappointment of having to tell an expectant set of grandparents that your body failed. The shame of watching your friends and people like Snooki carry babies to term, and knowing you didn’t. You couldn’t this time.
The imminent anxiety of next time. Already. Of lying in a hot shower, begging the painful cramps to end, and panicking about this happening again. Already.
And finally: this call to compassion.
The luxury we have this lifetime, this go ‘round, is our ability to connect in real time (see Facebook anecdotes above) with those who need to know they’re not alone, when they need to know it most. That is, in fact, what drives us all in the end--connection. To know we’re not alone. Loving Halo, moving to Canada, roller blading. We just want to know someone else gets it.
Particularly, when the shame, fear, and vulnerability washes over us. We just want to know that we’re still enough. Still worthy of love and belonging. Compassion does that for us. Compassion is the verb that not only celebrates the weddings, the love, the awesome meal posted to Facebook and Instagram, BUT also comforts the pain and sorrow. Compassion lets us know it’s just as safe to feel scared as it is to experience the joy you get from that kickass engagement ring he designed himself.
It’s a privilege to wrap our arms around each other and be there. When it’s tough. When it’s no longer the bride, wearing white, and dancing, but the twenty-six year old, pregnant, and bleeding.
It will not be comfortable, and you will not know what to say, and that’s okay. Let me help you.
Say:
I’m so sorry. I’m here for you.
Do not say:
It will be okay. It happens to 1 out of every 3 first pregnancies, and 1 out of 5 additional pregnancies.
Here’s why:
Rationalizing pain minimizes it. Trust me, from the moment the first drop of blood appeared until the doctor confirmed the loss, I was on the internet searching for answers, statistics, and hope. I know how common it is thanks to anonymous women on pregnancy message boards and Wikipedia. I don’t need to know how common it is from you. I need to hear you say that you connect with me on some level. “I’m so sorry” tells me that you understand pain, even if you can’t comprehend the situation.
Say:
It’s not your fault. You are allowed to feel devastated, but you don’t deserve to feel ashamed.
Do Not Say:
Don’t feel bad. It’ll happen when the time is right.
Here’s why:
It’s not my fault. Period. I didn't jinx it by telling people. I make it happen by worrying too much. It's not karma because I'm pro-choice. See rationale above-I’m an internet message board expert at this point-I understand biologically why it happened (chromosomal abnormality, most likely). I don’t need you telling me not to feel bad. I’m allowed to feel disappointed, heartbroken, sad, angry, etc... but, I don’t DESERVE to feel ashamed. And, that is where it gets tricky. Shame thrives in silence, and unless we start talking about the loss in our lives, I’ll forever feel alone. Inept compared to Snooki. Unless you’ve been there, you don’t know what it’s like to call your family and share the happiest news of your life, only to call them 8 days later with the most devastating. Joy is no longer untainted, it’s embarrassing to have been so unabashedly euphoric, only to have it not work out. Especially when it feels like your fault. Remind me it’s not my fault, protect me from shame, and then let me feel whatever I want to feel, goddamn it.
Say:
Take as much time as you need.
Do No Say:
You’re young. You can try again. You’ll have a baby soon.
Here’s why:
I’m terrified. What if this happens again? Once, I can rationalize as being normal. Twice, there must be something wrong with me. I can't even think about trying again yet. What if I have to break my parents’ hearts again? They shouldn’t have to worry about me. My sister shouldn’t make my sadness her burden. I need time to process this all. The nine month processing period between pregnant and baby is there for a reason. The overnight pregnant to not, is far more jarring. Don’t tell me I’m young and I can try again soon. To be honest, that just makes it worse. Miscarriage doesn’t happen to twenty-six year olds. Let me rephrase that, twenty-six year olds don’t talk about their miscarriages. In my mind, that means it doesn't happen to anyone else. I’m scared I’m the only one. The defective one—and I’m not. I need to know it's okay to take some time to make sense of it all.
Today, I challenge you to acknowledge the culture of silence and shame is not okay. Women and their partners deserve to know that they’re safe during what is quite possibly the most vulnerable time in their lives. Gone should be the days when women and their partners talk about their loss only once they’ve carried a healthy baby to term; as if miscarriage is a failure only to be spoken of after reveling in success. The truth is, to be entirely present, to be vulnerable, and to trust that others can and will support you not just in joy, but in sorrow, is a right belonging to all those willing to show up and accept it.
To be alive today is to be afforded a unique opportunity in history to broaden your reach of compassion, don’t let fear silence you. Reach out to those willing to be vulnerable with the world, share your sorrow, and trust that others will be there when you need them. I will be.
I’m so sorry. You’re not alone. Take as much time as you need.
*real status updates, names have been changed.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
And With Her, an Axe
Do not be upset, beloved
as you gather
thread at dawn. Forgive me still
when dusk arrives
and the cloth you've scavenged
from thorn and thistle
does not fit as my dress once did.
After you wonder aloud
the number of times we've loved each other
"...as butterflies, perhaps
or peasants, gods, orange trees, even..."
No, do not be upset
when you see
my quick retreat into the forest.
Think, darling
of the millions of fish
speckled and dying
that find their way back
to the waters of their ancestors
to the currents of their birth
blood of past lives
magnetic in their veins.
I too, am simply returning
to the spot where seeds have grown wild
to count the rings
and gift you with an answer.
as you gather
thread at dawn. Forgive me still
when dusk arrives
and the cloth you've scavenged
from thorn and thistle
does not fit as my dress once did.
After you wonder aloud
the number of times we've loved each other
"...as butterflies, perhaps
or peasants, gods, orange trees, even..."
No, do not be upset
when you see
my quick retreat into the forest.
Think, darling
of the millions of fish
speckled and dying
that find their way back
to the waters of their ancestors
to the currents of their birth
blood of past lives
magnetic in their veins.
I too, am simply returning
to the spot where seeds have grown wild
to count the rings
and gift you with an answer.
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