Poetry Thursday

The Body Remembers
~Yusef Komunyakaa

I stood on one foot for three minutes & didn’t tilt
the scales. Do you remember how quickly

we scrambled up an oak leaning out over the creek,
how easy to trust the water to break

our glorious leaps? The body remembers
every wish one lives for or doesn’t, or even horror.

Our dance was a rally in sunny leaves, then quick
as anything, Johnny Dickson was up opening

his arms wide in the tallest oak, waving
to the sky, & in the flick of an eye

he was a buffalo fish gigged, pleading
for help, voiceless. Bigger & stronger,

he knew every turn in the creek past his back door,
but now he was cooing like a brown dove

in a trap of twigs. A water-honed spear
of kindling jutted up, as if it were the point

of our folly & humbug on a Sunday afternoon, right?
Five of us carried him home through the thicket,

our feet cutting a new path, running in sleep
years later. We were young as condom-balloons

flowering crabapple trees in double bloom
& had a world of baleful hope & breath.

Does Johnny run fingers over the thick welt
on his belly, days we were still invincible?

Sometimes I spend half a day feeling for bones
in my body, humming a half-forgotten

ballad on a park bench a long ways from home.
The body remembers the berry bushes

heavy with sweetness shivering in a lonely woods,
but I doubt it knows words live longer

than clay & spit of flesh, as rock-bottom love.
Is it easier to remember pleasure

or does hurt ease truest hunger?
That summer, rocking back & forth, uprooting

what’s to come, the shadow of the tree
weighed as much as a man.

los dias nefastos comienzan de nuevo

It's cold and foggy out this morning, it fits perfectly with my state of mind and mood.

I feel both like I am walking in the fog and yet clear, painful memories keep cutting deep.

Tears flow just thinking about the trauma of that morning six years ago.

I'll come back and tell you more if I have the strength, for now, please just send me peaceful thoughts.
-------------

4.22

Six years ago today, we forced the doctors to sit with all of us ... to explain what was really going on with my sister.

Six years ago today, we let go.

Well, I don't know that we really let go. I didn't let go. But the headache I had been suffering lifted for the first time in three days.

I have to construct a wall around my heart to even write these words.

I wonder if I will ever be far away enough from this to actually remember those days in the hospital. I wonder if those days will remain in the "nefastos" category forever.

And tears fall down my face and little splashes of tears dirty my glasses, and I still can't REMEMBER, but the grief pierces my heart.

And even though I cannot will myself to remember all that happened in those days, I get flashes of the story as if it were a movie, and sometimes these wake me from sleep.

In sleep, I am in that panic mode of what can I do to make this stop. I used to be able to change the trajectory of my dreams, but this is not just a nightmare, it is reality.

Yesterday we sat around the table and shared some of the the trauma of the last six year with a friend we haven't seen in a while.

The tears welled up in her eyes. I felt bad, but we don't talk about it, and her presence gave us the space to do it.

4.23
I am exhausted. Sleep is hard, not as bad as it was all those years ago. But in the darkness, I remember that night I arrived. I had the mijo with me. His dad was at the hospital over night with Chila. As soon as the room was dark, the mijo asked me, Do you think she can get better?

What could I say? I told him I did.

You can't expect a miracle if you don't believe.

Last week, after six years, we talked about the trauma. I had the mijo with me for three days, and as always, it was bittersweet. And he asked me as soon as we were alone. Nowadays the questions are not as straightforward as they were that night. He asks a really hard, oblique question. He sees how I handle it. If I say something he can trust, I might get another one. I have to guess at context and meaning. I have to navigate the bombs. And if I do a good job, I get a little window into what is bothering him.

This time, eventually, after several hard questions, I said to him that he is allowed to have emotions ... that the trauma of losing someone when he was so young will stay with him, that it is okay to talk about it, to take care of himself.

I reminded him that at the hospital he was so worried about others - it's who he is, it's what he inherited from her.

He had a box of tissues, and if he saw a tear fall down someone's face, he was at that person's side, offering solace. He was scared to death, and he was consoling others. And afterwards, he was so worried about his dad, his own emotions did not get to be aired.

I took him to grief group every week. I suggested the one on one, but he didn't want to talk about it.

And now, here we are, and I worry, but I am glad that he still trusts me.

And I worry that if I could have just cried in front of him that maybe I would have helped him more. But even now I can't just let go and wail even though my soul is doing just that.

I am exhausted.

I say that feeling emotions is exhausting.

But maybe it holding them in that is exhausting.

Poetry Thursday

It’s Not Easy Being Green
~Debra Kang Dean

Whatever her story is, today
and every day that I’m here,
she’s here in her long, quilted green coat,

her companion—a beagle?—
nose to the ground, its tail
a shimmy. Unlidded to

lidded trash can they go, and
all along the fence lining the stream,
looking, I think, for whatever

salvageable cast-offs can be found.
By all appearances, she doesn’t need to,
but who knows, maybe she does.

The day after the first snow, she’d stopped,
asked, What’s that you’re doing? and, to my answer,
Yes, she’d said, of course, taiji.

Today, as I turned southwest
into Fair Lady Works the Shuttles, in it
lost, there they were, close by, again,

her companion sniffing along the fence
at court’s edge, and she, standing by. I want
to believe by now that she and I have gone

beyond just being fair-weather friends
as, moving on without pause, we simply
smile, nod, say, Hello. Or don’t.

One

It's amazing how numbers can make perspective so incredibly important.

Almost 21 years ago, my sister-in-law gave birth to my nephew ... and named him a not-approved name. It broke all my mother's rules, and was, generally, not preferred by my sisters.

So, when my mom's cockatiel started hatching babies, they all took turns naming the birds what they would have named my nephew. I can't remember all the names, there were at least five baby birds. I remember Cristian and Joaquin, but there were others, and finally, ET. My older sister said that the little baby birds that my mom was hand feeding, no feather yet, looked like ET, and they had run out of their preferred baby boy names.

Turns out they were all girls, so the names had to be modified. My mom gave away at least two of the babies since she already had two adult birds.

ET turned out to be a pearl cockatiel, beautiful with her little pearls on the tail feathers and a yellow-tinged stomach. The only one to be so beautiful.

One bird will be friends with the human; two birds don't even care about human interactions; three birds or more, and only one male, apparently makes mean girls like qualities emerge.

The other birds ganged up on ET her whole life, pecked at her mercilessly, causing her shoulders to be bald, no feathers will grow back after years of abuse. My mom always thought it was about competition for the male, but maybe it was bird envy. ET is really like the Cinderella of birds.

Why did my mother never remove her from that cage? I can't say, but she didn't. Perhaps my mom has more Darwin characteristics than I know.

And slowly the birds began to die.  I wasn't here for any of this, really, except occasional trips home. So, I would only hear from my mother, so and so died, on a catch up call.

But now I am here and I get to see day to day the update.

A couple of weeks ago the last of ET's sisters passed away. They are almost 21 after all. One morning, my mother found just ET sitting up on the perch and the other on the floor of the cage.

She is now only one, and her demeanor has changed. 

The birds have always asked for attention. Somehow they know the sound of my father's truck. As soon as he pulls up, the squawking begins. He always greets them in the morning and when he comes in, too. They always remind him, just in case he forgets, to come say hi. And it is like a neon sign, Dad's home!

I found out recently it is not just the attention they like from him, though they did love that. He gives them treats. Of course he does, my dad is the treat purveyor for all animals in this house.

Now ET is much more demanding ... and I assume that it is because she is lonely. Birds like to be in a flock, even if it is only two.

So, we all take turns going out to see her. Dad even throws out some bird seed right outside the door in front of her cage. Little sparrows come and chat with ET through the screen door. I wonder if they speak the same bird language.

She is still skittish after years of having to protect herself. But if you get low, especially if you bend your head, so she can just see your hair, she will make a little cooing sound.

No touching, no putting your fingers near, but talking is welcomed.

She gets as close as she can to you, she bends her head down like yours, she cranes the neck to get the best view, and she makes her little welcome sound.

And if you walk away too soon, she screeches or she just calls out - depends on how far away you get before she sounds the alarm.

I am teaching my niece to spend time with ET when she is here. ET can use all the attention and companionship she can get. And it is a lovely, fairly quiet moment of meditation to spend time with the little bird.

Working on renaming her with some better, nicer name ... something with the initials E.T. but I haven't landed on the right combo yet.

Note 1: mom's name rule states that given names should be in English with equivalents that are also acceptable in Spanish. The rule theoretically comes from my mom's experience growing up, where her name was always translated into English, including on all of her documents. (I am not convinced that she didn't do the actual translating herself since she also doesn't like the name in Spanish.) My mother broke her own rule with my younger sister, giving her the French equivalent rather than an English equivalent. But she was the baby, and it was clearly a new age in the world, or so we all believe.

Note 2: no mother needs to get approval, but she can also not prevent criticism, aloud or whispered behind her back.

comment that turned into a post

I intend to post.

I draft pieces and they feel flat and ugly and stupid and they languish.

But, sometimes, what I am feeling does come out, in response to others. I wrote this response to Anne Nahm on her post. And I realized it wasn't a comment. It was a post, wanting to come out. So, unfiltered, here it is.

Grief has changed my life... I can't say all in bad ways, but it is really hard to find the good ways (and, truthfully, when I do, I get bitterly angry about those changes, too).

When the experts say, everyone grieves in their own way, it's irritating, but true. 

The first year, for me, was interrupted when I had another major loss (brother first and then seven months later, sister). In the first seven months, I went from being unable to sleep or eat and wanting to claw through the floor, to feeling like I might be ok. 

And then the second loss. I completely lost it, but in a very strange way ... not unlike what you describe, but also different. I crawled in a "I'm ok" hole and stayed there, refusing to feel, heal, or deal.  

And then everyone else in my family fell apart in very open, real ways. My reaction to that was: I'M OK, I can handle it all! I will fix everyone. I can stick to all my plans and all my deadlines, EVERYTHING IS FINE! 

When I scheduled my qualifying exams, no one even thought to say, Are you sure you can do this? 

In fact, no one checked in on me. 

Friends I have known for year, for whom I have been a major emotional support for every little thing in their lives, did not even call me to see how I was.

I was busy. I was holding everyone else up. 

When I mentioned to a virtual stranger how hard the weekly calls with my mom and sister-in-law and brother-in-law were straining me because I couldn't take any more pain, she shamed me. 

Apparently, it was my job to be OK! FINE! Nothing to look at here...

I was so beyond dealing with the grief that I saw my sister everywhere. I would see her drive by in a car. I would glimpse across a crowded mall, and lose her before I could catch up.  

And I would think, good, she got away. She doesn't have to deal with this. I was developing an intricate story about how she was living a new, better, unfettered life..
And this month will be SIX YEARS since I lost my sister, and I just barely started crying about it a year ago... and it still comes out as yelling and screaming and angry and conflicted and and and ... it seeps out whichever way it wants to, when it wants to, unbidden, unwelcome...

All this to say, it really is different for everyone. 

And whatever gets you through the day. [And all those other things people say which are all too true.]

But also there is no way around grief. You have to go through it. When you feel you have the strength to face the loss, the scrubbed memories may just come rushing back and rushing out. And even when you are not "ready" ...

I checked in on you the other day because I want you to know that your grief matters... whatever stage or feeling or denying, it all matters, to me, and to a lot of others... but you don't need to post anything. You don't need to entertain me.

I will keep checking on you. <3

Poetry Thursday, um... got stuck in draft folder...

Dor
~Nathalie Handal

We walk through clouds
wrapped in ancient symbols

We descend the hill
wearing water

Maybe we are dead
and don’t know it

Maybe we are violet flowers
and those we long for

love only

our unmade hearts

On attends, on attends

Wait for Duras and Eminescu
to tell us in French then Romanian

light has wounds
slow down—
memory is misgivings

Wait until the nails
get rusty
in the houses of our past.

Poetry Thursday, a bit late, but totally worth the wait...

I used to be a roller coaster girl
~ jessica Care moore
(for Ntozake Shange)

 I used to be a roller coaster girl
7 times in a row
No vertigo in these skinny legs
My lipstick bubblegum pink
                         As my panther 10 speed.

never kissed

Nappy pigtails, no-brand gym shoes
White lined yellow short-shorts

Scratched up legs pedaling past borders of
humus and baba ganoush
Masjids and liquor stores
City chicken, pepperoni bread
and superman ice cream
                                     Cones.

Yellow black blending with bits of Arabic
Islam and Catholicism.

My daddy was Jesus
My mother was quiet
Jayne Kennedy was worshipped
by my brother Mark

I don’t remember having my own bed before 12.
Me and my sister Lisa                                shared.

Sometimes all three Moore girls slept in the Queen.

You grow up so close
never close enough.

I used to be a roller coaster girl
Wild child full of flowers and ideas
Useless crushes on       polish boys
in a school full of       white girls.

Future black swan singing
Zeppelin, U2 and Rick Springfield

Hoping to be Jessie’s Girl

I could outrun my brothers and
Everybody else to that

reoccurring line

I used to be a roller coaster girl
Till you told me I was moving too fast
Said my rush made your head spin
My laughter hurt your ears

A scream of happiness
A whisper of freedom
Pouring out my armpits
Sweating up my neck

You were always the scared one
I kept my eyes open for the entire trip
Right before the drop I would brace myself
And let that force push my head back into

That hard iron seat

My arms nearly fell off a few times
Still, I kept running back to the line
When I was done
Same way I kept running back to you

I used to be a roller coaster girl
I wasn’t scared of mountains or falling
Hell, I looked forward to flying and dropping
Off this earth and coming back to life

every once in a while

I found some peace in being out of control
allowing my blood to race
through my veins for 180 seconds

I earned my sometime nicotine pull
I buy my own damn drinks & the ocean
Still calls my name when it feels my toes
Near its shore.

I still love roller coasters
& you grew up to be
Afraid
of all girls who cld
                                          ride

Fearlessly

like
me.