one minute

I'm never going to stop painting my son's nails.

Whenever he wants to match my
blue
or purple sparkles
glitter bronze
macintosh red,

I remember how good he is at holding still
(for a four year old)
It only takes a minute
(His fingernails are so small)
And he is so happy to match his mom.

I want him to know,
that beauty is not reserved for women.
It is not an exotic flower,
or something that we possess
and he desires.
I want all doors to be open to him.

Today he handed me a bottle of
highlighter yellow
and he said, "please, mommy"
Because he always asks nicely.
And I paused my video game and painted his nails.

It only took a minute
He shows off to his dad
His aunt
And me.

I am trying to teach him
that he can be proud of all his joys.
And not be afraid to share them.
Masculinity does not define him.

He defines masculinity -
by deciding which nail polish to wear
and strongly identifying with Gordon the express train.

After he fell asleep that night,
I found the yellow nail polish on my desk.
With two coats dried,
I showed his father,
proud.

It only takes a minute for me, too,
to unlearn what it means to be a man.

In Memoriam

So many bad things happened,
And I sat quiet.

But I want to walk into the street and scream.

Fifty of my siblings are dead.
They lay in pools of blood
while loved ones cry
or
convince themselves that
they are fine.
mourning their own friends at the hospital
cell phones forgotten.

I want to cry for them.

I want to confront the
toxicity of men.

I watch my sister's abuser
excused and justified.
Her pain erased,
violation dismissed.
Because of his
potential.

This week has been a series of headlines
About pain and death
and the only news is
that my life is tossed aside
just as easily as
fifty dead friends.

That my narrative is taken
as remorselessly as he took
my body from me.

These news stories
responses
memes
tweets
status updates
photos
only frame the portrait of me
that the world has been painting for
     years - 

A poor, queer woman
who is only newsworthy
In Memoriam.

On The Question Mark

I love the way you say "yeah"
With a question mark.

The question mark is important.
It is waiting for me to continue, of course
But it is also, somehow
Pleased.

It is like a puppy who hears
"Here, boy"
And the ears perk up,
Suddenly alert.

It seems, in a way,
To be excited
with an air of "wow, really?"
disbelieving, yet hopeful.

It is not incredulous,
This question mark,
or genuinely curious,
It is not looking to be answered.

It is, I think, a little shocked-
But pleased at the discovery.

just tired.

I'm too tired to write a poem.
I tried to write one about
how I only ever learned what not to do
in the ongoing struggle to raise a well adjusted child.
Or one about how desperately
I want to teach him he doesn't have to be afraid
like I was for twenty six years.

I'm too tired to find the words
look at my spacing
Does this line meter right?
is the break
appropriate
or is this line much too long?

All I can think about is
making my own tea
how many times I'm going to forget my phone in the morning
and who is going to teach me to drive, now.
The tiny little spaces in my life that he filled.
How he makes me cum long,
and deep,
slowly bringing me to a climax,
and knows exactly what buttons to press
and for how long
and in what cadence
to leave me exhausted and filled with love.

I don't feel loved anymore.
I don't feel anything -
just tired.

Economics

I'm better than this, you say.
     Brilliant
     Determined
     Beautiful
    (Deserving)
That's fine -

Thoughts like that are a luxury
(because there is risk in chasing a better life)
that I can only believe when I have some breathing room.

Some distance from obligations like
     Rent
     Hunger
     My son
    (His father)
Or in your arms.

The problem with boys with money is that,
when they love you,
there is a mania that makes us look beyond our limits.

That glimpse into middle-class possibility -
     A full stomach
     New clothes
     A vacation
    (Freedom)
Gone as soon as they are.

You make me high, or maybe it is the air up there
so far above my place
that you breathe into my lungs after you kiss me.

My medication warns me about
     excessive happiness
     racing thoughts
     reckless behavior
    (unusually grand ideas)
And I am calling my doctor

Because
how can I tell what is a mania-fueled delusion
and what is my use-value?

One-Dimensional

The first time I let myself admit I love you was in a poem.
I can't voice the words
but somehow they fit in verse.

I wish you loved me back -

Me, with a heating pad, complaining about my period
Sleeping for 14 hours because we need to adjust my meds (again)
Giving my son a bath
burning cookies
kneading bread
Domestic.

Instead, I think you love
me, with a book and a highlighter
undressed to the waist,
prone on the bed
reading some dull intellectual text,
with your fingers buried in me up to the knuckle
your hands around my neck.

I hope Good Earth us is happy -
     because this sucks.

Two Poems

feedback

It’s a strange loop.

I like the way you like

The way I like how you look at me.

The fugue intensifying until my ears are ringing

And your eyes are dark and distant.

Somehow, I have been distracting you.

At a volume you describe as ‘cacophonous’

When the only sound is your thumb drumming on my ankle.

You leave the room, and I want you more.

Suddenly I am back at the beginning of this

Mobius strip that I have been treading,

Hoping, futilely, that if I walk it carefully enough

I will end up somewhere new.

Maybe I would step off onto that Good Earth

(different than yours, I know)

Housed behind the event horizon of some imploding star

Like the one that sits quietly in my chest while I cry myself to sleep.  

Or the one that steals all the light from your eyes which are

Just across the couch (the bed, the console)

A million light-years away,

Silent.

The feedback is ear-splitting.

that arm

The stretch of that arm
muscle, shoulder, back
flesh
    slips
beneath my hands
this texture
i can’t describe
your skin.

That smell, not soap
in my hair
those hands grasp
objects and my fingers
with purpose and delicacy
    respectfully   
you open the door

and i enter.