The Poetry Marathon

Shhhh

He never listens.
Cuts me off backs me up
Into a corner
Lines up the next verbal punch.

I ask again:

Is it ok to just not answer someone?
If they ask you directly.

I get more non answers.
A swerve.
He thinks he is right.
A dodge.
I won’t agree.
A hit.
He won’t compromise, so why speak.

I can’t do thia.
He never
Shuts up.
And listens.

He talks over me
Around me
Through me
And if none of that works
Ignores me
Completely.

It is marriage.
It is assault and battery
With language as a weapon.

A joy on a busy New York
Pulling over
Put of the crowd
Unnoticed
To dine alone
Book on hand
While thousands flow by
Ignoring me.

Heaven.

Having a baby is rough.
Everyone sees the baby.

Twins is worse.

Triplets impossible.

Everywhere with a giant yellow wagon.
All eyes on it.
All mouths gaping.

There is no more
Disappearing act.
There is no more New York magic.

Whenever he wants attention
He slides over
Garlic.

It isn’t his breath.
That is mint
Listerine.

Can garlic seep out of hair?
She slides a hand though it
Trying to solve the puzzle.

The hair is more an oil.
The clothes a musty fog.

Skin.
His skin smells like a clove.

She fakes a yawn.
Giant stretch
Slight moan
A snap of joints as she slips
Into bed.

For now it is all Gain
Like a sweetened bouquet
Sprayed with sugar.
And something else now.

What is that?
Onion?
No. Garlic.

Garlic sending fields of flowers.

I had already said yes
Under the Brooklyn Bridge
A sunny day
Where my face melted away
Leaving my hidden skin
Uncovered
Beneath.

We stood,
Arguing
Drenched in rain
Unable to agree
About having kids
Now that the rings were dispersed
Vows uttered.

He asked if I wanted my key back.

We drank instead
Until 4 am
And Irish step danced
And drank more
And barely could got in the car home.

Later
The beatings
Later
More drinking
Later
Abandoned
Pregnant.
Homeless.

One missed answer.
It should have been yes.

Do you just want your key back?

Yes.

Do you want me to turn and leave while we annul this mess?

Yes.

Yes.

After a year I did get my life back.
Somewhat.
But I never got
That damn key.

Her pigtails bounce
Side to side
Skipping brightly
In a lollipop swirl of colors
As her skirt
Bounces to meet her hair
The distance never quite reached.

She grabs her big sisters sleeve
Tugs a bit
Jumps up
Springing to be eye to eye.

Bella grabs her hand and leads her to the trampoline.
They jump
Each trying to stretch the extra inch.

They laugh.

Bella’s lace covered frock sticks to the lollipop color swirls.
They jump closer
Higher
Until they collapse
A smiling sister heap.

So it is in the cartoon Bella draws.

She has 5 brothers.
Not today.
Not this drawing.
Today it is her and her little sister Violet Grace.

Her and the little sister she will never have.

The grip goes round my chest
It feels like a pressure
Slipping up to my neck
But the grip goes tight.

I can’t escape
But I don’t try
Either.

For 2 months straight
I have drank one ounce more
One shot more.

Two nights ago I blacked out
Smeared shaving cream all over my coat
And vomited on the floor.

I have been death a u up text
Nightly.

I am waiting for his answer.
Tonight he does.
With a tight belt and a tighter grip.

I don’t want to die
But I don’t want life

I let the grip go tighter.
No escape plans
No clawing
I have determined the up is gone
And I am sick of descent.

I awake.
Head throbbing
Oxygen deprived
Alive.

Death let go this time.
I hope he won’t again
At his next midnight visit.

I wish my heart an iron vestment
To keep out the arrows of words
So touches on my skin, breast
Go only surface deep.
I wish to deep dive.
Into my well.
Free of fear.
Alone.
One.

Covid era Sunday on a clear afternoon.
No reason to watch white walls
And old binged Netflix
On a day without a cloud.

There was no sour dough starter.
Piles of canned food
Diapers.
This wasn’t stockpile.
It was a house of 9.

A put a n95 mask on my face
Periwinkle gloves on my hands
A hat on my hair.
If I got Covid it was the same as everyone
Coughing for weeks
Lying in bed
And that was the best case.

The store fronts were empty,
Closed
but the grocery hummed.
I take the third box in the row
So afraid covid is glued on them all.

I snag my jacket on a shelf.
Mutter a curse.
I’ll have to take a needle and sew that up
My 50 new pounds
Ate up my clothes.
Not much remains.

I get home
Spraying my boxes with alcohol
Still leaving them in the hall for 3 days.

What a waste of a cloud free day.

Russian new year
Is American new year.
But it isn’t.

It’s the same date
But not the same meaning.
Russian new year is like American Christmas.

That’s why he bought the watch.
That’s also why it is was a mistake.

He and his Russian holiday friends packed off
Waiting,
Pumped for a Times Square buzz.

He expected his wife to sit at home

Waiting.

She wasn’t.

Packed up.
Dressed up.
Went out.
Stayed a week.

She still has the watch though.

The watch of her only Russian new Year.

Grandma used to say
That’s the pot calling the kettle black.

I never had a black pot.

I never had a black kettle neither.

Had a black wool coat once.

It was odd in. Colorado
Common in New York.
It never called no one nothing.

Not like my mom
She accused me of ruining her life
When I married a man she hated
Who did too little and
Complained too much.

It’s my fault
Cause I brought him here.

But it ain’t her fault
The man she brought home
Molested me.

Them pots have some
Audacity
Don’t they?