It’s the smoke off a cigarette
the trail of a comet tailing
the way the residue of breathing
hangs in cold dawn air
it’s the look of knowing
shared between two lovers
the way a caress skims the skin
leaves a tingle after-flowing
it’s the way gnats swarm in evening air
the way a child heaves after crying
it’s the way a tear travels a cheek
drips into space
only the groove of wet remains
or maybe
it’s the way a dog cries and whines
the lingering tones of need after
the owner is gone
The guy at McDonald’s doesn’t know…
It was a bitch to get moving this morning
because a million speckled memories of past
mistakes, regrets, sad hours, memories held
me to the bed as I tried to wake up.
The guy at McDonald’s doesn’t know…
the effort it took to “put on my face”
and spike up my hair, searching every kitchen
drawer for a smile to wear and looking in each
closet to find the twinkle missing from my eyes.
The guy at McDonald’s doesn’t know…
I’m swimming around buoys and running down
rabbits in the field in my mind most days trying
to find the course syllabus for life at 53 after
the end of a 20 year marriage & a million lost
dreams that danced a jig out the door with the X.
The guy at McDonald’s doesn’t know any of this
as he leans out the window awed and thrilled
by the sexy black Audi holding a smiling blonde,
purse dog riding shotgun, and asks in excited tones:
“Are you the Cool Grandma or the Cool Aunt?”
I’m the Cool Grandma I say …. Grateful
that the word Cool is still in style.
Hours whisper sighs
as the birds swim by
a marigold cuts cartwheels
some angel is digging
a trench. . .
And then, you drop words
like a farmer planting —
dig the earth, turn,
trembling hand
fleck the seed
a story springs
to vibrant life, turn
of phrase or memory
or living life a life
living still the images
coalesce and pictures
move to the memories
flowing like water toward
the sea and I See
the past open
like a crevice drops
away from the land above
into dark otherworld caverns
of muted light and hours
pass this way — open opening
opened heart that hears as I
Listen…
Most Muses work with me from afar.
Fickle illusions sent to stimulate
a cranky non-poeting poet.
I swore off them. Decided –
Enough!
Walked away into the bright light
of annihilation and bliss, into
that place of Mystics and Wanderers
(and that was okay! I was fairly content
there
in that abyss of emptiness)
And then — you called me, or
I stumbled accidentally into
You. And You — Lord! More stubborn
than I, than any other Muse before You
showed up all flash and sparkles and
deep-sight serious wise and you can
Sing! Damnit! You woke me up!
And so I trudge to the Table of Speaking,
pick up the cursed pen, and start saying
your name in the silences that come
between the wing beats of my heart.
The days come and go another winter drizzle laughing -- I think of mice in the walls of houses all that scurrying about and what serious objectives move them. The days go and come another year rolls in grinning -- I think of poets and lovers and all the horror movies I've ever seen wondering why we drink the gore and blood as if it matters. The day comes and goes quickly -- I think of you and wonder how many lives we've lived, how many times our paths crossed, the touching of hands so commonly common as if dying held no meaning we take up the dance again.
When they dig into the earth, geologically,
the lines and layers speak their trauma.
Floods and fires, apocalyptic damage
showing itself in the thickness, debris,
lean lines and layers of scarred soil.
My grandfather taught me about the rings
on trees, the drought years and hard fought
survival ines showing in the width of the ring.
Natural growth stunted, thinner. This carrying
within its core, growth circles of pain and plenty.
I wonder at the trauma rings of humans —
slice me open in some way, split my center,
dig down the half of me in layers —
The hours of grief, the days of joy.
How deep each layer or how thin?
Slice me open, split my center
study me as the land or tree,
point the place of catastrophic growth —
line, ring, width, depth, expanding
into the archaeology of being human.
We are a million hours of time away from the boy who wrote poems and drew pictures -- and the girl so excited to read them, to know him, to love him. Those children lost in the fogs of doing adulthood -- The Serious Business of Living -- That Delusion -- Teaching them to hide away in the dark shadows -- alone. Grief is a selfish master. His remembering what is lost always living that past image. The dearness of it roots the tears, forces the chest to grow upward in swelling pain. We grieve the possibility that died. The honesty we forsook. We grieve what could have been if we were other than we are. We grieve the hours spent believing we could be anything and everything to each other -- those doors always closing in silence, the noise of our breaking heart the only sound left echoing through the room.
There was a man who felt pity for me because I didn't have all the fine things in the world. And I felt pity for him because he did.
Marissa Colleen Mullins 