Thursday, September 18, 2014

Tender. Trembling. And Unsheathed.

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

Sunday, July 06, 2014

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

Saturday, July 05, 2014

Muscle Memory

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

Monday, April 21, 2014

The Two

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 then one day, I remembered the end of the story. The story of Lorraine and T.  Lorraine, intent on proving her independence to T, left in the middle of the night to go alone. I remember T smoking a cigarette, waiting on the couch for hours for Lorraine to return. But Lorraine never came home. And when T heard the ambulance screaming, she ran out of the house to find the neighbors gathered around. T panicked and ran to Lorraine. But it was too late. Nothing would ever be the same.

It read like a cautionary tale. I could no longer be Lorraine. Spending the rest of my life masking for T. Spinning myself into her. Closed and afraid. And then, acting out in tiny moments of desperation, in oh so dangerous ways.

In forgiveness of her, in forgiveness of self, I etched the word "grace" on the inside of my wrist with a ballpoint pen and walked out of the door.

Sunday, February 09, 2014


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

Monday, January 06, 2014


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 you be a mother and free? Can you access full autonomy when another, literally, being created from self, depends so fully on you?  I don’t know. 

What I do know is that many women in their thirties cannot shift, change, and move so quickly because of motherhood. What the hell would I do with that? I am freakishly mad at Chiberia’s frigid temperatures and snow because it is interfering with my freedom to get the fuck out of the house. But a child. Who would I blame?

So, I’ve been thinking much about Adrienne Rich’s quote on responsibility to oneself.  Of not marrying, or taking on motherhood as an easy way out--a way to “escape from real decisions.” She calls on women to avoid what is expected, to be different. To live actively instead of a life of “passive drifting.” But dear Adrienne, If I am not leashed to motherhood, what am I leashed to? How will I create meaning? What will be my legacy? 

If I don’t have little orangutans, then my life better be fucking amazing. Like. The best life ever. I have to travel the world. And live in a polyamorous, Zegg Community and grow my own avocados. And tomatoes. And I have to take lots of pictures. And I really need to start writing that memoir, because if I am not remembered through a fertilized egg, then how the hell else will be I be remembered?

I better get on this promptly. I will. Well, just as soon as layer up and dig my car out of the snow.