happy birthday

you didn't tell me it was your birthday.
I could have
would have
planned something nice.

If that's what you wanted.

I can't even, really,
get you a gift.
Something small to say
"I'm glad you were born."
"Thank you for existing."
"You bring joy."

If I had had the time,
with a little warning,
I could have gotten you something
new
unique
a fresh experience.
Something you will remember,
because I am sentimental.

Instead,
I am lying here
at two in the morning
thinking of the many ways I could have said
(given some notice)
I love you.

Grinding my Teeth

“You’re grinding your teeth, again,” he said.
Grinding my teeth.

 Grinding my teeth?

I didn’t understand what that was.
It sounded like it hurt.
If I was doing it,
wouldn’t I know?
How do people not wake up?
Didn’t it hurt?

 I know, now.

Yeah, it does hurt.
It hurts like
when you’re fleeing him so fast
your chest is burning
and you wake up unable to breathe.

And it lingers with you for hours
as you eat your lunch and wonder
Why does this ache?

Sometimes you do wake up
But not always
like when you choose not to rouse yourself
during a dream where you’re being molested
and remember in the morning
that this could have been prevented.

And wouldn’t you know?
Shouldn’t you know
what your body is doing
without your permission
when you are trying to rest?

No.
Not always.
Because sometimes things happen
that are
out
of your
control.

one good poem

Not even one good poem

out of it.

Obviously

I was no Sylvia Plath.

-Elizabeth Brewster

Inspiration

(they say)

comes from hardship. 

So, I think, 

Maybe my hardship wasn’t 
hard enough

to inspire a book, 

or an essay, 

Not even one good poem.

There must be a disconnect 

between me 

and my talent. 

My experiences, 

and my efforts. 

Well, fine. 

If there’s no 

creative explosion, 

Maybe all I’ll get is

red eyes and hoarse throat

out of it.

And the simple things in life

like sweet fruit, 

clear skies, 

and a whole and satisfying

love

are still here to write about, 

though they may be a little bit

dull. 

I’ll never be an established poet,

Obviously

Still, I’ll be around to 

tease my lover, 

and birth babies

If that’s where life takes me

instead of to a short or long list. 

At the very least, 

maybe my children, 

(and grandchildren)

will boast with pride that

I was no Sylvia Plath

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.