The Poetry Marathon

I sit here a hypocrite,
always.
Big ideals, strong moral fiber,
but mostly words,
not much action.

Words can be action.
I’m trying to activate them.
But so far…
nothing moves.

It sleeps between us,
slipping out of bed unnoticed,
exposing my legs to the bitter air
of memory.

If I could just bring it out,
turn it over,
and have him label it,
then we could set it aside.

But it remains
hidden under the covers,
leaving me cold.

A week after I knew
I carried another life,
I sewed a green ornament.

For three quarters of a year,
I strangely loved the vine more the eggplant,
and dreamed in sage green.

At two years old,
the life asked for green curtains
and
I just said to the life,
two weeks before
the life has been counted for four years,
“The poetry people say I should write about a color.
Which color should I write about?”

And the life grinned and said,
“Green!”

It’s always been you green, even before they were born.

I met them while sitting on the toilet.
I saved them, after I finished wiping
and…did I wash my hands?

They had fallen into an ingenious trap.
Called by the darkness, the damp.
They stumbled in so easy,
but the way out was slick
and I flicked the switch.

I observed their failures,
as they scrambled and fell,
over and over and over,
their long legs flailing.

Only when they settled into a corner to die,
did I throw them a towel.

They ran right over,
desperate for the exit.
I left them in darkness,
thinking how alike we are in our panic
and relief.

I called them Dave,
and they hung up on the ceiling a while,
before ensnaring themselves again.

Yes, we are the same.

We sit with our food,
sharing it all sans hesitate.
This little family I made.

Alone is what
I imagine alternate.
I shrink back.

The people who don’t want this
I respect but do not understand.
This is the only reason.

Just keep swimming
and falling
into each other.
Tumbling
while growing,
Catching, attaching.
Just keep growing.
Dark dark dark
Light.
Silent silent silent.
Noise.

I used to hate
Resent
Question
Long
Dream

Now there is almost—not quite—nothing.
A spark of the old passion dissolves into
Let it be. It is.

They just
are.

Nowhere
meant a lot to me as a child.
I haven’t been there in years.

I’ve buried a dozen emotions,
for the twisted thing ego.
I release them upon the women and children I invade,
using the hours I spend tending broken souls.
I too, was a child once.

I’ve knitted a dozen newborn blankets,
For my children who I’ll leave out in the cold
If they do not see the same God-face I do.
I’ll never leave my God-fear husband.
I too, was a child once.

I’ve killed a dozen people, born and not,
for the sake of that nightmare dollar.
I don the mask of love, and speak death, but soft.
I learned my lines, but nothing more.
I too, was a child once.

I’ve been sold to a dozen men tonight,
for the profit of the child rapist Romeo.
Juliet escapes the only way she knows how.
I will know a different way.
I too, was a child once.

We swirl around each other,
his tears prick my eyes.
Anger bounces between us,
standing in for the ballgame we should be playing.

My brain reads about itself.
The machine making aware of its formation.
I say I practice breathing.
I don’t. I just breathe. When I remember.

Do others
develop multiple parts?
The one who rages and traumas into madness,
while another gently tells the first, “Hush now. We’re alright.”