The Poetry Marathon

You take the silence

for granted

until there’s some

awful caterwauling

noon and night,

printing itself into

the airwaves,

and even when the

racket finally ceases,

you still hear

ringing in your ears.

I think what we

fear the most

is that in the end,

all we’ll become

is the fruit basket painting

in a motel hallway,

something so

astonishingly mediocre

that it fades into

even the most

generic of wallpapers,

visual static in

someone’s periphery.

Something I learned

is that when you

give a bottle

to a breastfed baby,

you have to hold

the bottle horizontal

so they don’t drink

too fast,

because then they’ll

never want to

tire out their jaw

sucking their supper

straight from the source.

Maybe that’s what

I did with you–

I made it too easy

to drain me down

in gluttonous chugs,

so before too long,

it was too much work

to pace yourself.

She throws her suitcase

in the trunk,

an old, beat-up thing

with an ugly floral print,

something she found

in the attic of her Nana’s house

back when Nana

kicked the bucket,

and her brother

useless as always

left her alone to

clean up the place.

Maybe that’s why

she married Wayne,

’cause on some

subconscious level,

she found good-for-nothing

men comforting and familiar.

She shuts the trunk

with a slam

and ducks into her

denim blue lemon

of a vehicle,

swearing up and down

that this was the last straw,

this was the last time.

And she does a very

good job of convincing herself,

despite the fact

she left her good shoes

and only packed

a week of clothes.

I’d like to believe

that somewhere there’s a picnic,

whose diners have

fallen asleep

in the lazy sun.

And on that checkered blanket

sits mismatched thrift store

teacups,

the contents of which

are three-quarters drunk,

leaving just enough

sweet, sticky residue

on the edge of the rim

for one lucky bee

to find their own

tasty afternoon treat.

My mother bought

a new outfit for her

latest grandbaby,

a clearance find

by chance,

a delightful score

for my adorable progeny.

I smiled and cooed

over the colorful gingham,

the dancing watermelons

across the bib,

but in the pit of my gut,

I’m remembering a dress

from my own

childhood closet–

her fashion taste

never changed.

A different gingham

and a different watermelon,

and the hand that

snuck underneath

when no one was looking.

I appreciate her enthusiasm

and her constant generosity,

but I’ll never put

my daughter

in gingham and watermelons.

I wish I aired

all my grievances

in the style of my

six week old newborn:

a few panicked huffs

of generously provided warning

and then an ear-splitting

shriek of indignance.

I miss the days

of trick-or-treating,

when the longest hour

of the year

was spent pacing around

the living room,

waiting for dark to

shake down our neighbors.

A night of sugary possibility

cloaked in disguise

and the turtleneck Mom

demanded we wear

underneath.

I miss the ceremonial

Dumping Of The Bag–

A treasure trove of

individually wrapped

fun size trophies

all sorted out

by category and

rated via tier system,

carefully checked for

Ecstasy and razor blades

before siccing us

upon it like dogs.

My first Halloween

in our first house,

I assembled one hundred

bags of snacks

and surprises,

only to end the night

with ninety-eight

bags of snacks

and surprises

still sitting in a bowl

by the door.

A List of My Favorite Things

Cool, clean sheets

ABBA songs

Rainy Sunday afternoons when the whole day is open

Sourdough bread

Babies’ laughter

The spot on top of my dog’s head

Ice cold water

The 2005 version of Pride & Prejudice with Kiera Knightly

Craft fairs

Sweaters with sheep on them

Sleeping past noon

Old episodes of The Nanny

Powdery sweet perfumes

Halloween

That part in the English dubbed Sailor Moon R: The Promise of the Rose where Sailor Moon has to redirect a crashing planet from obliterating Earth with a magical crystal and the power of friendship to the absolute 2000’s bop, “The Power of Love”

I go numb

in the bottomless well

of thumb swiping,

a constant stream

of stimulation.

Can’t stop, won’t stop,

just one more,

I plunge under

the surface of

conscious thought,

gulping down

distractions by the mouthful.