for so long now I have seen Ophelia’s clothes each time I scoop leaves from the bottom of the pool, of the well, of the teacup of memory she comes back to me with a plaintive song about the boy whose soliloquies broke into a thousand words over water, hovering over the surface of the deep, almost a song until you cannot swim, touch the bottom and feel only tangled leaves, no solid ground to stand on if only she could get herself…well-to a nunnery, of course…high walls, soft voices sorting who or what is safe if not the boy, the beautiful boy with all his talk of infinitives of being….being, just a leaf in water, weightless until it begins to rise over her incendiary last infinitive thought-to be or not to be.
Category Archives: grief
J. crashes the party
If you asked me how I knew it was you I would touch your face and say aardvarks!! Anteaters!! Warthogs!! Your humor as unmistakable as your wit, odd they all refuse to see you, you in the over-sized retro flippers, ducky float ring and wild Hawaiian print crashing the party, the holiday, the cozy churchy potluck making almost everyone supremely uncomfortable. Everyone except the children who delight in your flamboyant honesty, your failure to adhere in any way to our sheepy ways, shorn and alone
You hand off the flowery shirt, the float, the flippers (none of which you ever needed)
seamless garment to sunblind guards
World go dark, pain and love
Set free
Rocket Girl
you float for a time in the “even so,” casually, miraculously, inexorably growing limbs and features and organs, that all-important beating heart. No one tells you meanwhile in “Houston…we have a problem” or that the problem is something you cannot (would not)
unmake you
/girlness /not boyness, your binary /identification /of /gender
Will be enough to terminate the mission
… when all along you have done your best in the beautiful floating weeks of the “even so”
You matchless irreplaceable girl-in-the-now, girl-for-a-moment
Until mission control
Aborts, aborts
Letting you
tiny dancer, rocket girl
Go.
The Countries I Have Lost
A country, just like a single old-left-foot-house-slipper can be metonymous. This-for that, quid-pro-quo, how-did-I-ever-lose-you?-metonymous. Hit me at 2 am, sharp intake of breath too hard to connect it all with proper punctuation metonymous. I once accidentally cut your hand in a car window metonymous. When I met you I thought you were the crazy one metonymous. Lost in Pittsburgh a million years ago metonymous. With you the reason for years of silence had to be different metonymous.
The countries I have lost all have proper names, stable addresses, no missing slippers. Us-and-them, before-and-after countries cheerfully conventional, intentionally respectful, naturally leery of the once-familiar mendicant whose metonymic wholes have been for good or ill
Irrevocably set free.
Mum’s Day 1998
they will say focus on the positive they will say at least you gave her a good beginning they will say we have 25 families waiting, better than you like this is some kind of beauty pageant for adoptive families?
…which was a weird lie of sorts…maybe there were 25 families …maybe 5000…in the end it was only necessary to know that it was never about the hypothetical 25, always about the avaricious pair, or pairs, -on-the-ark-come-two-by-two pairs of caseworkers, pairs of administrators, pairs of lawyers, pairs of accountants, coupling, uncoupling back and forth around a central lie, a few broken laws, and Entropy, the Mother-god, chained to the loss chained to the chaos of the loss…of her babies.
What was it
what was it, mute, inanimate object perched on the counter in the messy late-night kitchen as she finally sweeps up the spilled beans, tosses them out into the night, contemplates both what usually lurks there and if they will grow, sprout, tangle up into vines, vines to block the sun, spin to the clouds where the approximate-rhythmic giant dwells, mocking science, mocking long-dead Darwin, Glutton-clubbing, maggot-and-squirrel devouring Darwin whose mortal life has coiled to dust but whose immortal one is hot, vivid, fierce
Survival of the fittest…
Televising the Language of Sexual Aggression
Years ago I believed the cotton-candy fiction that it was enough for incest survivors, child abuse victims, and rape victims to just tell someone your story.
After 8 years of practicing this advice on behalf of the victims of intimate crime, I can say it is not enough.
If you tell your story, you will be marginalized, ostracized, judged.
If you tell your story, little or nothing will happen to your abuser.
If you tell your story, you still might not be able to stop the abuse…
…ostensibly because it is more fiscally and emotionally economical to ignore abuse than to intervene.
Which is why the recent statements made by American celebrities Stephen Colbert and Bill Maher (about oral sex and incest respectively) are all the more transgressive.
In making these comments both men display a complete disregard for the position of sex crime survivors and perpetuate the connection between anger and rape culture.
Many of us were denied consent in this process. We did not watch either show but were nonetheless exposed without consent to the barrage of media with explicit descriptions of comments laced with both anger and intent to shock and offend.
Shock is a function of trauma. Our minds buffer traumatic events with shock. When we cease to be shocked by what is trauma-inducing, we allow these things to become commonplace, accepted.
Yet it is categorically unacceptable for men of power and privilege to use their position in front of a national audience to transmit language that is verbally abusive and supportive of rape culture.
I understand that both Colbert and Maher disqualified protective language they would have extended to Clinton or Obama (and their daughters) because anger now fuels their discourse on Trump.
However in the process they have exposed a frat-boy, locker room mentality which not only has no place in intelligent dissent, it automatically signals to the already marginalized and disenfranchised victim of sexual crime-“you are not safe here.”
And that is shocking…or it should be.
A lexicon for grief
how many words for snow
how many words for rice or rain or storms
We humans and our specificity
Yet no words for listening
Hearing you
Being there, holding on, loving you
Looking into….
Oops! Already well into
Greeting card territory
When what a body needs is those…those
Ladies in the black organza
Wailing in the streets.
Where are they? When we need them so?
All those things we need them to
Do
Be
Say, not say, feel
a new vocabulary
Esperanto for grievers
Words for here I am with you (ret)
Just being here for you (ghurt)
You are not alone (hyop)
Breathing here with you (fppt…)
There are empty rooms and rooms for more
Make more. More for all the ways
I will be with you in silence
Letters strung together for the careful listener
Unspoken I am with you
Through the storm.
This Lovely
I have never told any of them I can see you
You standing in the corner
You deprived of the…nice guy/cute kids
…chance to believe
I will never be…
good enough for your oppa
Long hair, pale skin, face as beautiful as lost place, younger sister
This lovely
Ghost in the room
of us.
Science and the myths of gentle souls
lost keys
from either a piano or home
signifying the way
music will wash
over us
even after
any pretense of ordinary living has
turned to furtive or else.