The Poetry Marathon

It’s been over two years.

I’m glad you’re no longer here.

You’d fume, you’d fear.

You’d cry blood for me, for us,

your world, the world, your life.

A joy, full heart, hiding

sorrow, long neglect, scars,

of the mother shadow, she,

a pretense of domiciled mime.

And yet, you loved deeply.

A 180, you bore five,

doted, cherished, fussed,

sent me out to play,

in a white dress, I dare not

dirty; I still can’t.

A gravy dropped sleeve,

I can’t sleep, think.

Where’s the soap? Water?

Hopelessly stained.

I’m glad you didn’t see.

As you lay there, awake,

asleep, dying, living, breathing,

but barely knowing, I think.

You missed my misstep,

the splattered mess I made.

And when you inhaled,

and failed to exhale, I cried,

sighed with relief, happy

you never witnessed me,

falling down, filthy discharge.

So now, your legacy runs

deep within my cells, a pattern

on repeat; my daughters dressed

in purple and blue angst,

blemish free, spurning white.

So, here’s the problem. I’m in love, but I’m not. Love him, don’t.

I knew before he came, wide-striped stalwart dragon breathing me.

I dreamed him in my bed, in my shower, at the gas pump, eons ago,

a new mom, old wife, frigid, estranged, but there he was, faceless.

And when he spoke my name, behind the bush, at the hotel, I shuddered.

Shut. down. So that’s what I look like, that’s the rod and reel bait. Me.

So now we know, now we know.

I had to love his strength, muscle-bound black and white lines, like

“hey, you know you’re my world; don’t shatter it. You’re mine.”

Does everyone truly love a fascist, twisted up, tied down in a cliche?

Ten years gone, a heyday of sorts, of sordid pause, a shadow in relief,

Who said a woman must have everything, in adamantine chords, chained

to the sound of her own voice? Watch out for wishes. They may drown you.

Like smoke, drink, coke, a bite of your nails to the nub, habits stain passion.

We fold ourselves one into another, unravel and curl up in slaughtered sleep.

So now we know, now we know.

I’m a diver. I can’t swim, but I can float. The thrill of the leap tempts me,

every time, but the water’s deep, suspends, airless, still, wide-eyed sleep,

when you stare down death in an air bubble, tip of the nose, fourth eye.

And when you break the surface, you can breathe in the banal with relief.

My lonely habit, soft spectral contrail, I long to touch, until my fingertips

crush beneath your palm, captive tears, dying to free, me, to the river’s edge.

So now we know. so now we know.

First you preheat your oven at 180 degrees, an about-face from everything you knew and took for granted.

Let it sit for a month or two, the year’s just begun.

Then you take a large mixing bowl, scramble up a few rumors, official statements, hearsay, and news,

and panic.

Do weird shit, like hoard toilet paper and hand sanitizer, run your shopping cart into a ditch, shun your neighbors, haunt social media for a lifeline.

Letting your foundation set, whipped into frenzy, a chiffon of meringue madness, abide for a bit, see what the experts say, zoom a toast at 8 o’clock to fellow basted mates.

Sink into the sofa, smoke a blunt, drive by a friend’s house, congratulate her graduate with a honk and a sign, “Class of 2020!” and resign.

Help is on its way.

Don’t bake the idea too long, though, keep it in the oven past your last dollar, because you’ll falter, trip, sweat a few

confectioner’s sweets into your keyboard and blow your connection.

Better you sift through a conspiracy or two, topping for the frenzied mass you made, sitting on the kitchen table,

unmasked, dreamed, driven by fear, denial at its best, deign a madman’s folly, char your friends; hey, hang your

neighbor’s old man–it’s a free country.

Simmer what you want.

Time’s up! Your smart watch demands you take action. March. Burn. Loot. Cry. Celebrate. Die.

Eat your just desserts–you made it.

Dream big.

The ending’s just begun.

We’ll all be demanding a bigger piece of the pie–not the one you baked, though.

She, who never says an untoward word, thinks an unkind thought,

surprised me with her assessment:

“You have deep humility, accepting anyone without judgment. Sure,

you’re a little sad but that makes you relatable.”

Me, a proud woman who judges the ants that dare to walk beneath me,

the husband who falters at my hands, the children

I bore, through no fault of their own, and the world, belching forth steam,

storm and dung, that dangles on a thread at God’s fingertips, I laughed.

A teacher, business woman, President of the governing body of

all bodies, my body, those of my clients, friends, and students,

heart of my income, soul of my future, guru, acharya, spiritual grift,

I pay in sweat and sacrifice for a sideways glance, enlightened lint.

Pam Gerber here. This is my second or third marathon, maybe one was a half, not sure, maybe this is my fourth, but I am thrilled and anxious about arising a short 7 or so hours from now to begin. It was challenging but creatively exhilarating before.

I live in Huntington Beach, California, and teach writing at the local community college, teach yoga, and write for legal publishers and various sites. I have been on lock down with my housemates, my husband, two adult daughters, 86 year old father, Husky pup and Japanese Bobtail kitty. It’s been an adventure. Since my father is at-risk, we stay home.

Lock down has prepared me for this marathon. I sit around and write all day anyhow, punctuated by zoom meetings and classes. I’ve grown to love the slower pace and domesticity. Not sure how I’ll do on the sleeplessness, but raising children and surviving menopause has prepared me for sleepless nights too 🙂

I look forward to reading all the lovely poems in store for us!

Peace,

Pam

Though the shades are closed, vertical blinds obscuring the view,
I well know what lies behind them.
Out there, in my yard, lives
A grand Valencia orange tree 35 years old or more
That branches from the house to wall in a triangular
Patch of dirt amidst the concrete.
And kitty corner is the tangerine tree, frailer than her
Companion citrus tree but her fruit is sweeter.
She’s younger than her cousin.
In the southwestern corner of the yard are the rose bushes
One tall white rosed tree and one red sickly
She may suffer disease or rot, maybe bugs
And in the corner in the deep recess of abutting walls
Reigns the queen ficus, wild, unruly, with bursting roots
Uprooting everything in her way, concrete, cinder, and earth.
She buries bird nests and Edison wires within her bushy hair
Along the wall between the tangerine and lemon tree
Live a tangle of tomato plants, beefsteaks, cherries, and romas
Overrun nearly, by champagne grape vines grown over
And under my window, sentries to the morning, two small trees
That bloom pink peonies, peppering green leaves.
Beneath them, in the cool dirt, lies the Husky pup, Goosey Loose.
Who’ll soon lift herself on sleepy legs to crawl through
The doggie door, pause at the entryway before hopping into bed with me.

Every night
I long for you,
Day time too.
Tonight especially
Or is it morning?
The dark deceives
But not you, my love
You are my life
My one true love,
Faithful as the moon
When I’m weary
Or merely bored
In the dawning light
At midnight too
I miss you, dearest
I long for your embrace
In sheets of silken sigh
Pray you come to me
After the last uttered rhyme
When words fail me
Even more than now
Come entomb me
In your deathly delight
No need for dreams
Just take me now
A little while still
Close my eyes with your kiss
Sandy sweet
My darling
Hold me in your arms,
Dearest sleep.

My lovely swan, to whom do you petulantly gaze,
Elegantly craning your milky neck just out of sight?
Or do you pose for the painter, brushes on pallet
Oozing spirited sex and sass in the casual clasp,
The table’s edge between a thumb and forefinger?

Black satin ensconced fingers of a soft left hand
Grasp the falling black sash, ebony on steely night.
Who’s there off sight that your shoulders pull back
Flaunt your perfect posture, taut in practiced ease?
Turned out, not up, your nose points us the way.

Is it your fragrance, some Paris perfume you sniff
To flare the nares so regally as if scent sculpted you
From birth, the way your pretty pout folds into a chin
Equally sharp as the peaked nose round arced brows.
I adore the flashes in auburn lit hair swept into updo.

The sun would have streaked you strawberry blonde
Had you graced it with your presence, though clearly
Pale skin that would appear ghostly on another moon
Reflects embarrassed by its dusty light comparatively.
How I’d rest my chin in the curvature of those chains.

A hand I’d rest at the crease of your gown, just above
The impossibly narrow circumference of your waist,
A circle flowering thick bosom and hips begging me
Take notice: a crafted sexuality seething underneath
Discretely teased, in rich chocolate grace and ease.

“Oh my God, I hate my life‼”
“And what the actual fuck?‼”
Teenagers love big emotion words.
What will they do in an emergency
When they truly need to measure
Pain or excitement, despair or joy?

And yet, don’t you ever say,
“I’m going to kill you!”? I do.
What kind of homicidal maniac
Kills in retaliation for taking
The scissors without returning
Them to where they belong?

“I thought I would die,” my
Mother used to say, when she
Could say anything, in regards
To an embarrassment or shame.
Yes, those humiliating moments
Burn but never kill, nor maim.

And even the occasional yell,
”You’re driving me crazy!”
Which my mother and I both
Said to our children or spouse.
Though no one has gone mad
By another’s annoying behavior.

But melodrama is nothing new.
I’ve heard in the movies or
Maybe I read it in a book, the
Lover declares to the beloved,
“My life has no meaning, is not
Worth living without you.” Really?

And don’t get me started on cars.
I’d get more than a second glance
Had you recorded my car litany.
“What the f#$*k is wrong with
You, you jackass, mother f’ing
Moron. Learn how to drive‼!”

Comedian Louis CK jokes,
”Can you imagine if you said
the same to someone who
bumped you in an elevator,
Facing them, “I hope you die‼”

36 years ago, was it that long?
We married the year before and lived the blue.
Apartment, that is.
The long shag carpet, countertops, and walls,
All royal blue.
We were happy there, on our own.

So I potted plants, hung them in the light source,
The one big window facing the courtyard.
I lined them along the window sill
Or hung them from hooks in the ceiling
Where long fronds of spider plants
Would vine the window view.

But you, being you, peeled a tangerine,
Sat down at the blue couch under the window,
And ate that piece of fruit while reading the paper.
Only too lazy to dispose of the seeds in the trash,
You reached your arm behind your head,
And threw the seeds in one of the plants.

Mystified at the new shoots one day,
I saw the rich green forming jagged leaves,
Among the pale green rounded ones.
I watched it til it outgrew the little pot.
So, I gave it its own, and then another,
And then you confessed what you’d done.

When we moved to the house, the standing pot
Rested under the second landing window,
A long vertical rectangle to the roof.
Clearly, it was a tangerine tree—sans fruit.
Eventually, we knew we’d stay, even if
We had to pay the mortgage with roommates.

We were 23 when we planted her in terra firma,
Against the block wall we shared with the Germans.
There she grew, filling the wall and beyond,
Keeping the drunken parties and naked jacuzziers
Stripped from view as she rounded out her branches.
She stood tall, encircled by cement along cinder block.

Barren for 15 years, then one day they appeared
The forest green balls grew tipped with delicate buds,
Tiny white petals framing deep green mini golf balls
That turned orange in the late fall, the first in October.
The harvest was small but so sweet and juicy, pit free.
And her roiling roots under the cement rebelled.

They rose up, buckled the cement, cracked open.
We’d been married for 27 years by then,
And though our marriage was rocky, the tree stood,
Ready to weigh in, bend the cinder block wall,
Uproot the cement yard square foot at a time.
We had no choice, back then, but to accede.

We put down the boxing gloves, took up the rototiller
And tore up the cement, repaired the cinder block buckle
So the tangerine tree could grow up and meet them,
The daughters we’d birth and nurture strong and tall,
For picking tangerines, and oranges, and tomatoes
Takes many arms and long, long, long patience.