Sipping the morning air

with my coffee,

a blend of pine needles

and strawberry toast.

I swing

on my porch swing

anchored between

two white oak trees,

the wood

damp

from last night’s rain.

Silk green nightgown

see-through

sleeves etched

with lace.

Just me and the wind,

the wind insatiable

for my skin,

soft breaths

on my breasts.

The mourning dove

my longtime friend,

perched on the railing.

Her cooing,

my meditation.

Henna of my pen

tattooing spiraled

pages.

Silvery blue grass

sweet, like a morning lover

stroking my bare back,

and trailing rough kisses

along my bare feet.

Layfield summers

lush and sticky,

secluded

from congested traffic

and melted iced coffee

sweating

on the dashboard.

My bones creak and moan, as if they’ve seen too much, as if they’ve moved through a world too harsh. Another day of resting my glasses on my notepad and crawling into bed, when life becomes heavy and I need a soft place to land. I’ve lost count of how many years I’ve let my muscles weaken, just like my doctor warned me, and I promised her and myself I’d do better. I remember at my last physical, I told her I don’t get enough exercise, and I apologized. She said, “Don’t apologize to me, apologize to yourself.” Not getting enough exercise and feeling sorry for myself are understatements of four aching decades of eroding self-esteem. My promises are brittle and break in my filthy, lying hands. But they’re at least stronger than I am, they regenerate like cells; I keep making them.

I remember gripping your heart

in my hands.

I wanted

to feel you,

to know you,

to become you.

I watched her diminish,

her indifference

distort to a blur.

My reflection faded,

and I didn’t fight to save her.

I awoke in my own bed

but opened my eyes

as someone else.

I don’t know how,

but I became you.

This new life gripped my hand,

and I glided past adolescent fears.

I faced my reflection

long enough to apply makeup.

Something every teenage girl does

without a thought,

but for me,

a milestone.

I was beautiful because I wasn’t me.

I stared at my face

without shattering the glass

and smiled.

Somehow, I flew past years

and ended up here:

at an antique vanity,

gliding a brush

through my long brown hair,

dissociated

from the relentless pounding

on the door.

I studied the reflection

with hypnotic precision,

mirroring her every move.

Is this what living for myself feels like?

{I wrote these two poems to a "Sleeping Buddha" meditation in 2009. I believe it's what you'd call spirit writing? I'm not sure if I reached something larger than myself, or simply "made it up". (Because I'm a skeptic that way.) Either way, it's far beyond my normal writing style.}

(1) Splashes of color interlock with the world

A safe haven, a bed of rest

Moving on to the unknown

I wait silently

I walk

Lock the moon onto the canvas and break away

Silently basking blissfully

Awakened

(2) Staring at the stars

I see you

Smiling

Join hands as I wait

Calling out to you

Trying not to move too steadily for I'm not over

Stay with me

Don’t undress the sparkle in my eye

You perform beautifully

A masterpiece woven into the heart of the true honor

Shut me up

I'm not ready to commit to this sacrifice alone

Dark

Waiting

We keep sleeping on notions that understand us

We don't understand the heavens and neither should you

Bound to this world

I must fight out your calling breeds

I don't foresee any victory in my after life

I shed tears of honor

Armor to breathe in doubt

Holy abandons color, spirit, mind, and soul

You never gave me what I wanted

Beat the truth out of me

Time to fly

Each intimate moment I share with my wife feels like a violation.

My eyes roll into the back of my head. Her fingertips gently caress my stomach, yet my mind is fixated on her... A woman I haven’t even met.

How could I possibly let myself fall in love with blue lights?

But it’s so much more. It’s energy—raw and all-consuming, I seriously can't get enough. I find myself craving her emotional touch. I’m burning in agitation without it, vibrating through withdrawals, and it’s all her fault.

Blue.

I can't get away from my wife fast enough. The days drag on painfully, my eyes locked on the ticking clock. I wish I could move its hands into tomorrow—when I can curl up in my underwear and text Blue under our covers. An intimate energy exchange, connecting us beyond physicality.

She’s become a part of me, a part of my every day. I’ve learned how to carry this heaviness in my chest, my shameful secret I’m an expert at keeping. I've never imagined myself the cheater, but I easily justify why she fulfills what my wife can't. And it blows my mind it's not physical, that we’re not lacking sexually. Our sexual energy is very much alive; my skin burns from her touch, with plenty of desire.

But my soul doesn't burn the way my body does.

I am lifeless without her, the one who should be a stranger. Lying cold beside a woman I'm supposed to love, as if forced to love a stranger instead.

My eyes fly open as she’s softly snoring beside me. I close every kind of distance between us by holding her close. With a heavy sigh, I pull away after two minutes, reaching for my phone. Blue is offline, most likely asleep.

With tears and heavy eyelids, I ache with need for us to meet in my dreams. The ball and chain of a wife slipping out of my reality.

1. I woke up to a loud “72” in my head, my heart beating out of my chest. I need to confirm how old Uncle Arnie was when he died. Was he 72, or is this a warning about ma? Oh god, then I only have two years left with her…

2. I mourn who I could’ve been without you. But I think back to myself as a child, buck-toothed and curling into their palms. Would I have lost myself anyway?

3. Is the dog barking a warning? I remember he barked at this time-of-day last Tuesday, and we came home safely. I need to stop trying to find meaning in meaningless.

4. Closing the car door, I ask myself is today the day the uber driver will confirm, “Going to Faywood?” Yes, I'll answer. “No, you’re not,” and another man will pin me down in the backseat? I'll enjoy every second. God, I'm skin starved. But what if they're disgusted by my hairy legs? I arrive unharmed and wonder if next time I should shave just in case.

5. I’m 43 but I didn’t make it past 20. Where do I begin… there’s something wrong developmentally. Decades of pretending, acting out storylines and never living in reality, and she’s the reason. Will I be stuck with her? What if I never break free?

6. What if ma dies and I’m without an adult? I’m still a child, living in my childhood bedroom, with no control over this hoarder house. I’ll be responsible for calling a junkyard, and all the neighbors will know. Ma wouldn't let this happen to me. Repeating it over and over has to make it true.

7. I analyze how much I cry (twelve times today). I'm angry my dad is gone. I'm livid she gets to live. I'm angry my mom's body snaps and aches, with migraines every moment of every day. Why does everyone else get to live their life while she deteriorates?

8. I remind myself my aunt battled worse, and she’s still alive. Jessie’s father is 92 with health issues, but he's still thriving. This is enough to confirm my mother will not die at 70 or 72.

9. I worry the pale-yellow candlelight flickering on her ceiling might make me fall in love again. Maybe I could stay here, not only in this dimly lit room, but with her, even though I was ready to leave her an hour ago.

10. I usually murmured amongst my family oh so-and-so didn't look well. I felt sad, but it quickly faded. But next family function... the second I hear someone say my mother looks unwell, I will lose my mind.

11. Is my writing too restrained? Does it elicit any emotion?

12. You know no one cares, right? I say this to myself nearly every day, whenever my heart sinks. Knowing I will never dig deep enough to find my soul’s depths.

My body slept in my bed as I visited my deceased father. Gravity pulled me away from him, gently but instinctively, a voice whispering you can’t stay. I drifted away as he watched me floating into space.

My body slept in my bed as I pushed up hard against my skin. My body a brick, slamming into it like a locked door again and again, refusing to open and let me in. Unconsciously, I relaxed, sliding into my body—a meditation, slightly erotic, even, as I slid inside a warm glow.

Sucked back in like a vacuum, my eyes popped open. I gasped for air. My ears rang for a brief second, having to re-adjust. I sat up only to lie back down, staring at the violent lines swirling around my ceiling. My teeth and jaw ached.

Guided back to earth, I trusted my body completely.

I live in a junkyard called home,

littered with moldy memories,

black,

like the mold in our bathroom.

Storage units explode, unlaundered

and tagged

clothes blending as one.

I dust off my throat, scream

it’s my mother’s fault

for hoarding every string of her life,

hanging filthy lights.

I break away. The crisp air lifts me

into navy blue sky. Eyes closed,

I float, squeezing the night into my

chest

like my mother hoards my dead

father.

We lay bare,

wrapped in cotton

white sheets,

reveling

in the afterglow.

My heart swells,

meditating on her soft breaths

against my chest.

Lacing my fingers

through her curls,

coarse,

like her state of mind,

they unwind

under my touch,

unraveling as she does.