She wrote with sound and fury. She wrote like a Warrior Poet, and she won her freedom.
The beauty of a daffodil
lies in my Mother’s hands.
Mom’s palm
is fast to calm any grief.
Mom’s passing went so fast and so slow
but silently none the less.
Oh God, my dear God, how do I make it through this.
I have my Mom’s hands; they make daisies beautiful.
Away above the clouds she dwelled
until slumber I took.
In her left hand, she grasped a plain, wooden bowl
In her right, an ornate, porcelain vase.
In dark, I slept in terrors as her lengthy arms fell from the sky
Grasping the bowl down my throat, she scooped me out.
Misery, we shared.
But, as the day began to creep back in,
her magical potions of clear, cool water caressed me through with joy and jubilation. Dig me deep and fill me up, my wise, wizened Mother.
Is it the left hand or the right tonight?
Like every night, it’s both.
Curling my fingers around you like a Twizzler in my hand,
Chewing off the top and bottom carefully as not to be noticed.
A deep inhale brings a sigh of relief and a pang of worry.
You infiltrating my lungs as if long lost friends,
Sighing out the vapor is bittersweet-I don’t want to say goodbye but I want to say hello again and again and again…
How will I stop;
When will it end?
Long before she lost her leg,
before five-year-old me scratched her cornea,
before she had her cancerous breast removed,
Mom was a water ballerina.
When our family went on vacation to Sanibel- back before it became trashy and shark ridden,
Mom would put on her simple bathing suit from last year and the one before that and the one before that and so on.
Next, she would put in her weighted fake boob and something was lost from her sparkle.
Then, unable to swim because of all of these stupid things,
she would walk miles up and down the beach collecting sea shells.
As a child, I thought it was her passion.
A shell hard to be unique and lovely in any form to go in Mom’s bucket.
So, day by day, morn til you couldn’t see your hand it was so dark, Mom would trudge the beach always looking out for jellyfish though I am sure dad would have urinated on her.
Mom , barefoot, would dance with the ocean.
Sometimes, a cha cha…other times a fox trot,
but they all seemed a lustful waltz to an 8 year-old me.
Later, in the condo, the two of us would go through her finds!
I loved the spiral ones, because I could hear the ocean I had been swimming in all day.
Mom listened to all of the sea shells
I tried it, too, but heard nothing.
I told Mom she was being silly with me, but she swore she wasn’t.
She’ll after shell, she laid back and listened to her lover’s call.
But, I heard nothing at all.
Book of my Mother’s
a classic fete
rhymes of ancient times.
Story within stories
filled with conflict and allegory.
Your olden ghost emerges and beckons me
“Come visit me for awhile…just for a sip or two.”
And, I wander to the novel in a trance,
sit down on the couch, and drink it in.
Then, I smell my dinner burning.
It’s been 13 years since the sun has last risen.
I remember its rays encircling her now auburn hair as if she were Mary the mother of Jesus.
But, she was my Mother
though she did keep treasures and follies hidden in her heart.
I couldn’t sleep in the chair next to her sprawled out body any longer.
Three or maybe four lifetimes had passed since I had let myself sleep on a bed.
That night I couldn’t take it anymore.
My cramped up body needed some R&R more than the fat man needed to lose some weight to not get halfway down the chimney and pull a Pooh stuck in a hole scenario.
She fell that night.
Lost in slumberland at the other end of the house,
I did not hear her crying out for me
It was though one who had spoken out for many voiceless lives had lost her own words inside of air.
The next morning, she told me of her night’s mishap.
An angry sun cried through the window that morning encircling her auburn hair like a halo.
But, it was not as red as her red, marbled foot and leg from the fall.
At her request, I had gone to the doctors appointment a few weeks earlier.
At the ER, the staff came in to see why I was crying so uncontrollably.
“Her leg is going to have to come off,” I yelled.
I was told she had good pulses in her leg and foot.
She would be fine.
Right.
I was right.
These moments were the beginning of the end.
I was right about her leg.
So, it began…
To be continued…
I want to quit but don’t know how.
Fear flows from my head to heart to paper.
I never asked for this pain,
but I did the right thing;
Now I’m stuck like the tar baby.
I weep and moan, but no one hears-
not even my dogs, because I won’t let them.
I can’t let anyone see the real me.
There’s only one who would help, but he won’t.
Just one more day-everyone remarks.
What if that one more day is my last day?
I leap from jellyfish to jellyfish when I talk to you.
Never the same,
smack or kiss.
I am in my blue period of life, I guess.
What suits you? Anything I do?
You hate my freedom.
You hate my dogs.
You hate me. Maybe not on the surface but deep down where people don’t like to talk about sibling rivalry.
I was abused harder, but you had it worse, right?
Why is it always a competition with you?
Who cares?
You needle and needle and fucking needle, needle, needle until no one is happy. Everyone is in an uproar but you as you inwardly cackle.
You love it when a plan comes together! Your plan- no one else’s.
No wonder my brother hates me and loves you. Needle, needle.
Mom would be so disappointed and disapproving of you and your schemes.
You drive me to lunacy then let’s take a nap together.
Who are you like- Mom or dad?
It’s been a week;
I still feel weak.
There are games afoot;
I know, because I am not a fool.
I want to cry to bawl my eyes out,
but the tears won’t come.
Instead, I got the lovely conciliation prize of a migraine.
The tears just won’t come.
Memories of you prance around in my head.
I don’t understand how you could play so many roles and be one person.
I am confused.
You were contrary- intentionally.
Why?
I remember great moments and horrible encounters with you.
Why?
Why?
It doesn’t really matter.
I loved you just the same whom ever you were at any given moment.
You were my whole world, and that was a mistake I should have learned upon Mom’s dying.
I didn’t learn then, but I am now. It doesn’t sting so much anymore.
Why?
Because pain is the price we pay when we love someone.
The corners are softer than they used to be.
The memories are stark, clear in my mind, but fuzzy around the edges in my soul.
I think we took turns as Narcissist and Empath until I finally left the scene, and you left the storyline.
Why?
You pare an entity who ears souls and minds. My Avenger skills are no match for one who devours worlds. My whole world…
You were Hawkeye and I struggled and fought you to the death.
I died.
Why?
I am Black Widow.
Susan Awakening 