The Poetry Marathon

Am I aimed for madness,
destiny pulling the string
of the bow toward the Greater?
I love you as Ginsberg loved
Carl Solomon, and all I can see
is obliviate sunrise.
I need a plane ride, need
a hot tub, need a
Holy Experience.
Can you give me that?
Can you give me love
in a supermarket, human touch
through the glowing screen
of my iPhone, tenderness
from across a king sized bed?
Speak to me in Spanish, ancestral
tongue, tell me you can’t sleep
unless you read Neruda to me.
Nourish me. I hunger.

When the storm rolls in,
don’t forget to breathe.
Look straight up, dark clouds
above you, and blink in the drops.
It’s okay to open your mouth.
When you are tired, rest.
When you are hungry, eat.
When you are cold, you may
go inside. Close the blinds
and draw the curtains.
Do not open them.
Do not open them.
You may light a single candle
or use a single flashlight.
No more than this.
Stay awake until the rumbling stops.
Don’t forget to breathe.

When I am happiest,
I speak of forgiveness.
I speak of books
and worksheets and practices
to get you there.
I speak of letting go
and of laughing (at yourself,
mostly). When I am happiest,
I remember being asked
“What do you want most?”
I think of likely answers—
wealth, luck, immortality,
love. I answered that I didn’t
always want to be happy.
I want to be at peace.

Now I lay me
Down to sleep
I pray to land
Always on my feet.
If I should die
Before I wake,
I pray they leave me
In the lake.

I want to be a dandelion—
bright, resilient, blooming.
I want to scatter,
to wait for the wind
that will continue my cycle.
I want to die. To live.

As I’ve grown, I’ve become more reckless.

As a child, I set my bedtime
at 7:30, arguing that I was growing and required more
sleep. My mother laughed and still tells the story.

As a preteen, I mapped out my life— college
would get me out of my small town (it did); college
would crack open the world like a pecan.
I placed pins in the world map that hung
like a prayer in my closet— never go back to Summerville.
But college is expensive, and I come
from Poverty. What to do?

Babysit neighborhood children and young cousins.
Sell artwork to classmates for their lockers
(Blastoise was my best seller).
Create jewelry and sell it door-to-door.
Craft animals from pipe cleaners (fingers
are easily torn by wire ends— a cautionary tale) and sell
them widely— teachers placed custom orders
for the holidays.

As a teen, my savings grew. I was accepted to Duke
(out of state!). I wrote that I wouldn’t marry
until I was 30, after I bought my house
with the red door and owned a Mustang.

Love is cloudy and makes the mind brackish.

As a teenager, I birthed my child to laughter. 16.
Savings (paltry) drained.

As a mother, days were precise. Feeding at 10am.
15 minutes for snuggling and burping. 45 minutes
for play. 30 minutes to read together.
Nap at noon. Scheduled. Written.
Posted on the white refrigerator.

Kindergarten— four baby carrots, eight cubes
of Muenster cheese, ziplock bag of Goldfish,
box of apple juice. 30 minutes for homework.
Play until 6pm. Dinner. 45 minutes
to read together. Quality time (TM).

Now I speak of running to the edge of the Cliffs
of Moher to see the waves eat at the cliff face
300 feet down, of riding a yellow Kawasaki Ninja
until I landed on my head, of no fear, of no
dinner because I forgot, of “What day is it?,”
of poetry.

Poetry has made me reckless.

Is it still a proper brownstone
if it’s in Jersey? Six broad brick
steps open like arms, white concrete
banister a hand in open gesture.
Welcome. Unit B.

Does it matter if the details are wrong?
I tried.

Double doors slide apart, heavy as pianos
eyed in lead glass. The color is almost
cream. Almost yellow. Warped
wooden floors spread
hardened pulled caramel, pulled taffy.
The stained glass window stares onto the street
higher than anyone can reach. Cobalt and
cadmium red and yellow orange azo
in a perfect lead-lined circle twelve feet up.

Could it have worked? Us?

White and cobalt tile in the kitchen.
Plastic bat lowered on fishing line
spinning, facing an iron barred window. Two
squirrels stare in through more lead-lined glass.

How much lead was in that place?
How much lead in me?

Window half open onto the fire escape.
Twenty-four inches to save a life. Scrappy
orange striped tom comes and goes. Habanero
is his own cat. The fire escape
is for smoking and confrontation.

How is he? How is he?

Half a slanted closet waist high
is meant for liquor and board games. Some books.
Some sheets. Enough space to hide a grown man
like the crease of an overpass. Lead painted
wooden door. Lead paint flakes
off in layers. The door is more paint
than wood. More lead than wood.

I’m sweating the lead out. I’m sweating
you out. Lead beads on my brow and down my back.
I’m becoming clean again.

From the rooftop on Cannon
we broke jokes like eggs,
begged shingles to hold,
avoided sagging dips.
The moon wasn’t full
felt incomplete. I wanted
the stars to be brighter,
wanted streetlights dimmed
and a better view of my bungalow
three blocks away on Percy, wanted
something better to say. Words
swirled like smoke, rings above us
and out into the city. Three
heartbeats high and open.

I was ten. Service started
in the mausoleum, cold in August, dry
in Charleston. My face was swollen
blooming in red— crying still doesn’t suit me.
Men I didn’t know in sharp uniform
draped a flag over your casket
as if it was an honor. It would be
an honor to hear your laugh
crack and wheeze. Mourners lined up
in six prim rows split
down the middle. Men in sharp uniform
marched through glass doors into sunlight,
rifles on shoulders. More lines.
Some mechanism, invisible strings, prompted
them to lift and switch and snap, rifles
more lines, 70 degree angle held tight.
Those were the first shots I heard
since you… since you… since you…
My shoes were off, bare blistered feet
on marble, pads only pumping
to the opposite wall. All glass and names.
I watched from the dark
hands over ears and the shots
kept coming. My navy blue dress itched
inside and out.

Women with strollers pause languidly
in front of my front windows— panes
like chromatic stained glass, panes
that love light like an invisible oil spill.
The heat slows them. There is never a cry
from the covered strollers. There is never a cry
from them.

Women with strollers stalk the sidewalks
of my one-street neighborhood, elongated
cul-de-sac lined with brick townhouses
and dormer windows and polyester flags
that read ‘Welcome’ in the same font,
patterns that change with the seasons.
Their eyes are marbles, heads lean
to the left, black wheels crunch the concrete.

Women with strollers are quiet, keep
to their kind. There are no words or looks
exchanged, not even to cross the street to continue
their path or when they break ranks
for the evening. There are no friendly
nods to neighbors, no “Nice day, isn’t it?”s,
no smiles at leashed Golden Retrievers
or smirks at middle aged men wearing socks
with their sandals.

Women with strollers circle like sharks, pass
my windows on the hour. Keeping time.
I peeked into a flat stroller once, a perambulator lying flat, designed for infants,
pushed by a woman with airily sculpted hair,
thin and bright. The stroller was empty.
I peek as often as I can. It is always empty.