Me, Undone

I've already begun writing a song for you The presentiments of satiety After being starved for so long You must feel the hunger to know the full

Why do you fuck me like that? With your heart out

To let go consciously is consent to go naked once again. It is not like a slit in a skirt pocket or things misappropriated or forgotten in human precipitation and haste.   It is simply and painfully this. One finger, then the other, and another, Unlatching. A quick weakening of the heart. I’ve gotten so good at letting go I’ve forgotten how to carry Teach me how to hold You

I am Lorraine. In the canary yellow dress and petticoat. I've come home from work to place the crumpled brown bag of groceries on the kitchen table. Soft like taffy. Malleable. Imprinted. Easy to upset. Adept at verbal cues and emotional nuances.  A hand on the hip. A swift change in the cadence of your voice. I am stirred by everything you do. And everything you don't. She is T. Drapped in deep green. The color of the stormy sea. She is hard candy. Brutally honest. Disconnected. Jagged rocks for hands. When I arrive, she buttons her tongue to the inside of her cheek. She does not have the language to talk to me, the easily bruised bird. We exchange pleasantries. Talk in between. In spaces. Safe ground. And after we make love, I am empty inside. And so our lives played out like that. For years. Resentment growing like mold on Monday's leftover pot roast. She hated me for my bruising. Not knowing that I bruise because I am alive. All those things denied to her. But the

That's the trouble with penance Even after you've emptied your pockets It still demands more

I’m seriously reconsidering my move to Chicago. It is so fucking cold. And the cold has got me moody and stir-crazy.  -15 degrees? Seriously? Like 0 degrees wasn’t cold enough. Old man winter is so stinking insulting.  And I can really think about absconding, because well, um...I have the freedom to do pretty much anything. I have a job, actually, a relatively good job, but I am not my job. I find it difficult to say that I am a teacher...rather I say, I teach. I could very well sign up to do cartwheels around the world next year. That’s just how I think.  And I am not tied to motherhood, which is simultaneously liberating and slightly problematic. Many women organize their identities around motherhood--it is convenient way to create meaning and purpose in a world that can otherwise seem random and incidental. You know the story--the unruly woman kissing girls and taking shots in the bar, suddenly births a baby, and subsequently, stability and domestication.  But can