The Poetry Marathon

Mirrored Love

My body is not young and tight,
its skin is no longer taut.
Crow’s feet fan from my eyes,
and freckles speckle my face and arms.

Hardened callouses encrust the heels
of my feet, their edges split and bleed in the cold.
A long, smiling scar bisects my torso
from hip to hip, stretch marks from breasts to back.

I love it.

My body brought into existence four babies,
three to raise to adulthood and one to lose,
my reminder of their bodies’ fragility.

My body bears the brunt of many smiles
etched into its surface for all to see.

It continues to draw my love to me
in the middle of the night, an irresistible pull
in full view of my many imperfections.

It will never be perfect, never again young,
it will never turn other’s heads,
but it is mine, a mirrored reminder
that I have lived, and loved.

Tracy Plath

Peering Into the Abyss

When I was happy I loved high places, balconies and rooftops gave
a secret thrill, the Grand Canyon was an exquisite torment, a frisson
of thrilling danger grazed my nerves as I gazed over the edge. I
was a hawk searching out possible prey, an errant feather sliding
sideways on slipping air currents, irresistibly drawn to the fall,
seeing myself stepping over the edge and imagining the flying
freedom, a second-hand thrill, never to be enacted.

Later, when torn in tiny pieces and unable to pull together,
recalling childhood abuse, the death of my child, an
imploding marriage, clinical depression sank in its
claws and what had formerly thrilled then filled
me with terror, and there were no more
balconies for me. I took no mountain
hikes, my feet stayed firmly on
the ground,  for I knew if I
dared to step up to
the abyss I would
at long last see
what it really
meant to
finally
freely
fall.

Tracy Plath

Unarmed

Walking the lonely path under a leaden sky,
pierced by winter-stripped overhanging branches,
my feet were bleached and puckered
in sodden shoes, unarmed against the weather.

Pierced by winter-stripped overhanging branches,
my arms were colder still,
and I, in sodden shoes, remained unarmed against the weather
as splashing footsteps approached quickly from behind.

My arms were colder still
than the warning in my heart
as splashing footsteps approached quickly from behind
and I risked an over the shoulder glance.

The warning in my heart
did not prepare me for the warmest voice
and I risked another over the shoulder glance
at that voice, issuing from under a too small umbrella.

I was not prepared for the warmest voice,
the timbre of melted kisses and cinnamon toast,
a voice issuing from under a too small umbrella
that offered shelter in a tentative tone, daring me to accept.

Melted kisses and cinnamon toast
became the breakfast meal for two connected souls
after shelter was offered, in a tentative tone that dared me to accept
the inner warmth of shared shelter, and the lesser chill of outer, uncovered arms.

Tracy Plath

My Monkey

I once moped my way
through black-clad days,
trudging, head down,
hair in my face,
contemplating why I hated me
in flowery, overblown prose.

The angst monster rode my back,
teen version of a drug monkey.
Feeling downtrodden was my drug of choice.

Out of Body

Earbuds firmly planted, for the first time I listened to the musical magic of Depeche Mode, flagship for my eighties alternative generation, as I waited for my race. My mind was freed, and I only unplugged when approaching the starting blocks, tossing my Walkman to a teammate as surrounding sounds invaded once again. I leaped from the start as the gun cracked overhead, body smoothly coiling into its well-practiced groove . . . swing, swing, thud, thud, breathe, swing, swing, thud, thud, breathe. Mine was the last race, the middle lane, as a slowly setting sun fixated my wondering eyes. The rest of the world faded, disappeared, and I saw myself in silence from above, a dipping, gliding, firm, young body pulling ahead of all others, feeling like the proverbial poetry in motion, sailing to a solo finish across the line and only then hearing the roaring, cheering crowd once again.

                                                       Out of my body

                                                       beyond the pale evening light

                                                       wishing to be where

                                                       Tracy Plath

Connected

The first thing I do,
even before coffee,
is turn on my computer,
connect to my global group
and write, and write, and write.
I laugh, live, love
by the blue screen light,
pour my soul into digital bytes
soaring through cyberspace
to target another soul
somehow, somewhere, and gauge
my inner worth by one small,
slow, like at a time.

Stilled

Once again, gel was smeared on my swollen belly and paddles
were placed over the presumed places of my babies.
One baby squirmed and wriggled, warm and vibrant in her world.
The technician’s face fell and then froze as she swept the paddles
and searched for two heartbeats, confirmation of continuing
life and growth within, and found just one beating heart.
She spoke nothing, left to find the doctor, as I stared at the black
and white image of one baby, stilled but for the jerking rhythm
of my own now racing heart, bumping her tiny body against my inner belly.
The doctor’s practiced demeanor conveyed suspected truth, his voice
droned on in a background, dull roar, and strangled words finally emerged
from the cold, black hole that was now my heart “please, please, let me go home.”

Before Darkness

El Paso’s evening symphony
begins fortissimo, an explosion
of vibrant colors streaking
the desert sky, azure, orange, rose,
a visual songburst echoed
by the last, frantic calls of birds
seeking shelter within the palms
and scrub, the scree, scree
of crickets advertising availability,
and the scrabbling, scurrying
rustle of miniscule desert lizards
searching out day’s few remaining
thrumming vessels of heat
to sustain them through the night.

Softly, surely, in deepening streaks,
the light purples down to dusk,
the birds settle to cooing mumbles,
and crickets and lizards slow to stillness,
their nightly hibernation begun
as the emerging moon silvers
and silhouettes, and all quiets
to the tick, ticking of my small world,
contracting into darkness.

We, Then Me

He and I, living parallel lives,
walking through the front door
and not meeting each other’s eyes,
pulling his arms desperately round
me, only for them to drop
as soon as I let go,
the great divide in the middle
of the marital bed, no hand
or foot daring to bridge the gap,
and a love that once sustained
now going, going, gone
with none but an empty echo
and the dim, distant
thunder of implosion.

Caretaker

As I gazed at the day room
the head nurse shuffled through,
checking pulses and giving orders.
The carpenter slid along the walls
tap, tap, tapping for unseen studs.
The Wall Street broker yelled
into resident phones sell, sell, sell!

Slippery layers cradled within the skull
nestle gently against one another.
Whirls and folds contain the essence
of humanity, a seemingly random
jumble of gray flesh that is in fact
the backlit cosmos of each person,
unknown and unknowable beyond
outer myelinated mannerisms,
remembrance in repeated motion.

Tendrils of dementia infiltrate layers
like wood smoke on a cloudy night,
extinguish the memory of a child’s name,
a lover’s face, ember by glowing ember,
gone, but for the tap, tap, tapping,
the sell, sell, selling,
and the gentle, cool fingers
placed on the wrists
of other ghosting, fleshly shells.

Tracy Plath