rising

i found the heartbeat of our daughter.
her drum raced a few beats faster than our son.
i hear them, i see them, and i touch their shadows on your skin.
it is april and the tulips are rising.

i remember holding my mother's hand on this day
6 years ago.
my finger rested on her wrist.
i held my breath and counted her every last beat.
i can still feel her pulse in my bones.

if i love, i listen.
i listen in love.
i hear life as music and music as life.

i can smell spring sliding through the windows.
will i mother as beautifully as my mother?
will i celebrate storms and sunrises the same?

"from noon to midnight and midnight to noon
there is always growth, child."

i ache to know the lives expanding within you
while i ache for my mother's voice.

these words are adrenaline for the future,
awareness of the past,
awe of this second,
now.

it is april and the tulips are rising.

cannon of love

standing three steps away
you are naked, vibrant.
your belly is exposed.

our world is now a touchable round.

i trace your curves,
gulping for my breath.
my eyes and throat burn.
i am merely water and salt,
exploding in awe.

your body holds three brains, three hearts, six kidneys, thirty toes.
every day i get to see see your skin stretch a stronger home.
i rub your head, your feet, your shoulders
imagining every cell within you feels touched.

i am not the father,
nor will i know these children moving in me.
but i am a cannon of love,
a well of hope,
a circus of imagination,
and i've never wanted anything more than this role of mother.

balance

i will never give birth
but my mother gave birth eleven times to eleven children,
and your mother will give birth one time to two children.
i have known wonderwomen.

i wonder if my mother wondered about us the way i wonder about the two of you.

who will you be?
will i be enough?
will i balance you both evenly
on my hips
in my schedule
through your first breaths
into adulthood?

i hate malls and purses,
but i love guitars and bubble baths.
whatever your fondness, i will adore you both.

you will know judaism, catholicism, buddhism, capitalism, socialism
and i will never decide what is right for you.

darling one and darling two,
practice goodness toward yourself and others
and feel part of something bigger than you.

two

i felt a snake on my forehead,
little like a worm.
i let it crawl from my head to my hand
where it slid beside the second snake,
also little like a worm.
asleep, my mind knew
these tiny two were brewing symbols
for you and you.

i saw two bunnies in the snow,
watched them wander on the white road
and whispered to your mother,  follow.
asleep, my mind knew
these tiny two were brewing symbols
for you and you.

you were simple splitting cells
but i sensed your existence
and dreamed vividly of two.

double the mothers.
double the dumplings.
double the destinies.

cell shifting

i whisper to the future
beginning in your belly.
a sonic wave of melody
solidifies safety and security.
my voice is suspended through your skin.

we sit in the cusp of change.
every cell is shifting
and tomorrow becomes more real than every yesterday.

i've moved many through long nights
but woke wanting more.

now, i am living more.

the grandfather clock grabbed me at noon.
i am half over, half begun
ready for you,
forever.

boundless blur

a heart that can will itself, will.

often will is lost
between fear filled lungs
and a moldy mind

I find you in the fog
lying in memory and now
tasting ruthless truths I bury

this life is mine
but faceless figures define
who and how I share it

the clock ticks faster
my skin gets cancer
and I struggle more than ever to leave the house

your life is yours
over
and over til it's right

chapped lips crack
chapped lips bleed
moisture is our choice

find me
in the fog
beyond the veil

this boundless blur
my heart
wills so

anomaly

I start today with a surface memory from the morning you passed.

I was supposed to get blood work. 

I was three weeks past my weekly draw.

The nurse called with ‘come in, today.’

The ‘had I gone’ doesn’t exist.

I can’t what if.

I won’t what if.

I was there

beside you

exactly where and when 

you left. 

Five years later on the hour

I am here writing words to keep you.

The truth is I was thirtysomething 

and I held your hand, often.

I didn’t think much of it, then.

I realize now what is rare.

When I was nineteen,

you held your hands above your head and danced

in a doorway in a bathrobe in a hotel in Florida.

Your grace taught me freedom.

Breastfed beyond two,

(I was the last child 

to be held and understood)

I thought I was the anomaly.

You carried twelve

delivered all naturally

loved all unconditionally 

and lived gentle into eighty,

leaving stories behind

of lives changed and healed.

Mother, you are the anomaly.

our bounty

there is a sickness in silence

that passes in secret

while women women and more women

stretching over continents and centuries

feel the same sword.

1 doctor, 125 women. 

decade after decade after decade. 

how sick the size of one man's damage.

sister, 

we are in this bubble together

and for every time i fail to warn you

and for every time you fail to warn me

the damage done is doubled.

when your lover beat you with words, fists, or lies

why did i not rise for you?

when my lover beat me with words, fists and lies

why did you not rise for me?

sister,

behold that we are our bounty   

so our bodies are bound for reverence.

settle the unknown

I have a truth I carry
In the palm of my pale hand
When love left for India
I came to understand

A map may reveal distance
A watch will tick and wind
This knowing you placed within me
Settles the unknown in my mind

My body may grow weak
You remain soft by my side
You are my deepest root
You are my strongest guide

A map may reveal distance
A watch will tick and wind
This knowing you placed within me
Settles the unknown in my mind

raised to love

a fever brews in the blood
and shivers surface over skin.

here the beating self begins.
here, the weak body.
here, the wilting mind.

i fear being the burden
that slows her race with destiny.
i fear being her burden
that distracts her from joy.

i fear being unloved when i am most vulnerable.

she holds my face
and exorcises these notions.
she was raised to be kind and gentle.
she was raised to love.

this is the last fever i will be the fool.

Kate

the last time i was on manhattan

your fingers rubbed arnica over me.

with gentle compassion

your eyes stared into my skull,

with fierce protection

your wine numbed our shock

with soothing tannins.

with stained skin and bones scarred

i carried the silence too long

and you let me speak.

we have always let each other speak.

for twenty years 

through first loves, first heartbreaks

first highs, first depressions

first babies, first albums 

first homes, first deaths

first careers, first breakdowns

first acts, first curtain calls

first firsts and more firsts. 

i have always felt heard,

i have always heard you.

we have been young on highways,

shouting at the wind with pink lungs.

we have been older on desert mountains,

starving for oxygen and solace.

in this moment, 

i'm looking at you across a rooftop that overlooks Manhattan.

there will always be distance.

but we are survivors.

this friendship is prolific.

Five Years

does it ever get old,
this second chance at life?

aging is a mother-loving blessing
and every morning is a milestone.

at 17 i didn't think i'd live past 35
and told Alec this when i was 27.

i died no doubt.
buried sadness,
made more room,
and let a kidney resurrect a better me.

i've always been a hugger,
but now i hold on longer
because no one is counting
and touch is my memory shaper.

in these five years
i've touched the cliffs in Ireland
i've touched the toes of new born babies
i've touched the lips of women i love
i've touched the walls of a homemade prison and said goodbye
i've touched the fur of my pups
i've touched scars and cancer, breasts and hips
i've touched the strings of chords in songs i dreamed of writing
i've touched pages of novels that ignited my brain
i've touched the wool in weavings spun by a woman i adore
i've touched skin that gave me goosebumps
i've touched the peridot stone on my left ring finger
i touched the fading pulse of my dying mother.

when she gave me her kidney,
she cleaned out the garbage
and taught me the depth of love.

(before my blood was clean
i was convinced love meant struggle
so i embraced some bruises
screaming
silence
jealousy
control
threats
and i cried silently in corners.)

when she gave me her kidney,
she cleaned out the garbage
and taught me the depth of my life.

i pause for flowers in fields, i pause for cloud shapes in the sky,
i pause for strangers on the sidewalk, i pause for kissing goodbye
i pause for memories in the making, and i pause to write down these words.

if you give me a kidney, i'll give you reflections on what it means to be alive
every year
until i die.

peripatetic

(the eggplant couldn't wait
so i held it between my fingers and bit it
while i walked beside her.
the tall man born in the Netherlands said,
"peripatetic eggplant'
so i promised him poetry for breakfast.)

sit seven secure women at a table
and i drift and dream of matriarchy in the white house.

i will smell last night forever
and request a lifetime of conversations that crawl toward midnight
   with fever, cocktails, and Paul
(the tall Netherlands man.)

i don't believe sweat has color
so throw away what's pink and blue
and just pay me for every drop of salt on my forehead.

i want men who look me in the eye,
who balance respect with admiration on their tongue,
who share unfamiliar words, encourage risk,
and trust my body is connected to my brain.

i want women who drive women into independence,
who seek solution over opinion,
who hold each other in darkness
and let go when sunlight calls,
  because there is a world to run.

i am peripatetic
i cherish women
  and Paul.

Father's Day, 2017

Last night loneliness crept beside me

wrapped my wrists in its claws and whispered,

  'You are alone.'

I am a grown woman

but felt like an adolescent girl

who can't find a friend in the cafeteria.

My father and my mother are dead

and last night I could not feel any sense of them.

Is it dramatic to feel like I wanted to die?

I fell asleep only to dream of my mother,

who no longer wanted to be around me.

My best friend didn't want to be my best friend. 

I suppose Heaven is better than any best friend.

Is it still too dramatic to feel like I wanted to die?

It's these holidays.

There is a global design to find the perfect gift for dad, 

and the sales stab my sad gut. 

All the ties, the books, the cards  

  everything hurts on Father's Day.

My brother just sent me a picture of the sky above my parents grave.

  'My view as I lay here with mom and dad.'

I don't really want to die.

I just want my parents back.

We are all young children, 

lost in the super-market,

trying to find our parents.

the experiment, 4/30/17

I see your roots
exposed and long.
Your fingers are my downfall
and your speed is near mustang strong.

Your colored skin has seen the sun
and your eyes glisten like wet dew.

I am in Ohio
washing rags in righteous water
wondering what will this future say of its past.

I told you to follow your heart
but that was the full moon talking
and now the memory owns me
like the promised land owns my sister.

If I let you break the rules and move me
I'd be knocked out cold
with shoulders stretched beyond sockets.

There is a sprinkled spell in all this
magic, science, witchcraft, fairy dust, and god
making cells so
there is no release.

do you remember our first kiss?
because a thousand rising and falling suns won't forget.

North Collinwood, 4/23/17

on tuesdays, fridays, and saturdays
i hear gunshots in bed.
only at night
do they catch my breath
when they wake me from sleep.
volume defines proximity.

every day, around the corner
artists gather to make music, sculptures, coffee, and Neapolitan pizza.
we drink mugs made in her studio,
wear scarves made in her workshop,
wear dresses designed in her store.
it's a living, eating, breathing-it-all-in community.

last easter weekend,
1.9 miles away,
a triple murder took place
leaving three children without their parents and family dog.
the street is numb.
the street is nauseous.

(shock drop and roll
while the media fails
the police force ails
and the councilman weeps for the nest he's trying to keep.)

every June
.4 miles away
the main street bustles with black, white, brown, pink
kids, grandmas, teenagers, stray cats and pit bulls.
west to east and east to west
food trucks dress the air with aromas,
music tickles feet with beats in the sidewalk
and everyone sweats beneath the summer sun.

every century,
the earth spins
and duality unfolds itself randomly
in the country, in the suburbs, in the city.

now,
balance.

the shape of my sleep, 4/21/17

At 4:56am I realize I sleep like my mother.

Turning to my side
I feel my knees bend and fold on each other
I feel my left arm cross over my neck
I feel my left hand land upon my pillow
and with bullet speed 
memories of my mother 
burst. 

Her arms were painted with freckles, 
shoulders to wrists, 
a pointillism tan.

Veins like mountain ranges 
rode the surface of her hands.
I followed them with my fingertips as a child
and turned her palm open
to find infinite life lines. 

Do I rest my elbow over my eyes
because it fits so
or
because she did?

It's been four years.
I know I don't miss you enough.
I reduce grief to fit in my pocket to function.

Here I am
awake and aware
in morning darkness.
I counted your breaths on the last day.

You were just here
are here
shaping how I sleep.

the h word, 4/12/17

in third grade i was itching to age

and put my breasts in a training bra.

my mother and aunt joanie understood 

and carefully catered to my bumps.

who would i be without this female foundation?

no family man ever told me to follow my dreams

or fed faith in self.

there was little space for my voice in a room of brothers

  most used volume like a sword.  

my mother never shouted and i heard every word she spoke.

the idea of losing her sister

after losing her,

  annihilates me 

again.

at 95, there is not a wiser woman who knows my face

  yet it's been a year since I held her hand.

she is my mother's sister,

and i have forgotten to be my mother's daughter.
  
my own modern world fails.

key west, 4/10/17

I am a passenger on the 7 Mile bridge 

where the midnight moon is full

and the ocean reflects like a poet.

I am a two hearted thing

and it will be this way indefinitely.

without a choice 

I am anchored to a double truth

land and sea

city and suburb

man and woman

living and dying.

I am led with a conscience,

  aware of duality.

Hemingway's bedroom smells like a distant grandfather

and cats sprawl across his mattress.

I touch the walls knowing my sentences are short

and I prefer dogs.

what if we woke every day before the sun rose

and wrote the virgin thoughts of morning?

I imagine this 

  and collecting ceramic tiles for a floor I do not own.

today, I dabbed holy water on my forehead

showing my Protestant sister 

the father, the son and the Holy Spirit.

there is a difference

between a cross and a crucifix 

between our skin and its response to light

between the shape of our breasts.

but we still share smiles with our eyes.

the codes in our blood are magic and human,

despite all the bits and pieces that will never match.

I am drawn to people eager to sweat

who cherish the body, the shell, and romance

who know there is no warranty

who understand maintenance is required.

Away from winter and monotony 

my body whispers 'i am but once'

and the ocean reminds me to write this down.

your kind whispers

You are not the Joe who frequents strip clubs
or the George naked beneath a trench coat

You don't offer candy to first graders on sidewalks
or dabble in online chats with curious preteens

You aren't an uncle in pursuit of his young kin
or the president who grabs women by their pussies

You are your own kind.

You play Jesus on stage
and draw in the fragile seeking affirmation.

You earn parental trust
then pour wine down virgin throats.

You whisper words you're gonna be a star
on staircases that lead to bedrooms.

You puzzle piece a cult together
and publicly appear perfect.

I'm forty now, not fourteen.
I don't know where you are
  but I know who are you.

I wonder how many stars have heard your whispers.
I wonder how many carry the weight of silence.