obviously i can’t leave

i have a child & husband
no family threads to speak of
nothing that would miss me
but i also know
i don’t want to start again

the idea of rebuilding
it’s exhausting
rationally i don’t want to destroy
everything i’ve stabilized
all the progress
the lack of symptoms

but it’s just this time of year
after thanksgiving
before the end
and i find myself cruising Craigslist
looking at jobs
i wonder what housing looks like there

because we know this can’t last
why would you saddle yourself with me
i’m only going to destroy her
our marriage will implode
simply because i don’t know
suppression – only immolation

and maybe that’s the discomfort
the creeping silence
of a self that hasn’t been torn apart
shredded examined sifted through for lies
in far too long, falling headlong
into the winter of my discontent

Listen –

I’m not saying that
all the white woman wellness messages
are right or wrong –
that I should start
using designer vaginal gemstones,
guzzle smoothies spiked with ancient herbs
or surround myself with wabi-sabi pottery
to reconnect to the earth-mother
and my inner child.

However-
I did spend seventeen years
mourning Conan O’Brien’s
Successful marriage and the circumstances of
time / wealth / social class / intelligence
that conspired to keep us separated,
only to be at a point today
where my husband is a 6’5″ redhead
with a impish smile
a refreshing lack of cynicism
and a ridiculously dry and surreal sense of humor
which means he thinks I’m hilarious.

So –
Maybe be mindful
of the energy juice you throw out
into the void of the universe
and the next time your friend starts in
with the cedar burning or the salt lamp
whatever it might be,
try not to laugh.
Everyone deserves a shot at their Conan.

Just as I notice

the leaves on the ground
and the annual return of
pumpkin spice everything,
i notice my thoughts return to you
and what you might be doing today.
No longer do the feel the urge
to google you,
to find your mugshot from age 19
and a shoplifting bust
when you needed to desperately escape
your life in Florida
but I still wonder about your happiness.
Are you an old lady
writing poetry on your front porch yet?
Or did you give up that dream
like I did
simply for the sake of avoiding the cliche?

Poetry is a game

for the young at heart
that still possess
ragged cliffs of emotions
and passions
not yet dulled
by the years of tides
of sorrow beating against them,
the salt of which you can still taste
in the tears that fall
from the frustration caused
by creating an emoji response
for something that you’ve trained
yourself not to feel any longer.

Welcome to your 30’s.

1996 Saturn SC1

Hunter green, four doors
used to be mom’s work car
But was gifted to you at 17
So you could take care of all the driving
you’d need for your senior year.

speaker system and amp installed
by your brother and his friend
who loved sitting in the front seat
screaming at the top of his lungs
and punching the windshield
until it finally cracked
spreading over the front like a spiderweb
remaining there until the day it gets traded in.
he swears he’d replace it
but it never seems to happen and
the cracks grow minutely like the resentment
towards him as you watch
him and your brother eat stacker 3 like candy
and dupe you into taking them into Westerville
for shoplifting marathons at Meijer
where you get called by the store’s loss prevention
and you in turn call your grandmother
beg her not to tell your mother
because you know that somehow,
even though you were working across the street
it’s going to be your fault.

five seatbelts, but
if you took the backseats down
room for nine with two in the trunk
for trips to Columbus
to watch the Rocky Horror Picture Show
on the first and third Saturday of every month,
pizza at Hounddog’s after
home by 4 AM before mom gets home.
as you tell your friends about it
the redneck in class asks you
if your brother is a faggot
because only faggots would go
to a show like that
and you get into a physical confrontation
because you’ve had enough of his mouth
and while you accept that they call you a dyke
fat stupid white trash whore
you draw the line somewhere
because while your life is fated to end up
as a single mother in a singlewide trailer
with dodgy plumbing
he still has potential, and you know how damaging
this type of pigeon-holing can be.

air conditioning works, but barely
and anyway,
your favorite part is rolling the windows down
and blasting whatever is playing on the alternative station
while you drive down I-71 heading towards
the Hilltop or Old Town or maybe even German Village
because it hasn’t been gentrified yet
and it’s still grungy enough
that anyone who might care
is doing things worse
than a bunch of white kids
rolling to techno at a warehouse party.
Eventually, you realize that your favorite part of
every weekend is the 45 minutes into
the city, seeing the lights of it as the sun starts sinking
and you know that you can drive yourself away
from the trailer park, From the rednecks
and make a new identity for yourself
one where you get to dictate the terms of your life
trying to see where reality threads in with whatever YA book
or modest mouse song
you happen to be shaping your life after
wondering if you’d ever be brave enough to do the things
you’ve dreamed about every night
while you were washing off your legs,
applying Neosporin and bandages.

Truth Becomes Her

At what age did I decide
the man in the moon was
Shadows and craters or
Dandelions only make allergies
And not wishes?
Or that I would make it
across the bridge
Past the cemetery
Regardless if my breath held or not?
What age defying lotion
Or retinol youth serum can I use
To remove the dark spots and
wrinkles of reality
So I can point up to the sky
And whisper in my daughters ear
About green cheese and
Moon rabbits and
Silver dollars and
Be able to swear it’s all true?
      • A.M. (2018)