This is where she sat,
legs tucked under her, a child
always
perched there in the nest of her lap
Everywhere there are women, now
in big floppy hats and loose cardigans
hair flying behind them
in the wind,
smiling.
The playground this afternoon was empty
as we filed out to say goodbye
I listened hard to hear her laughter
and the silence pulled me on.
They like to tell you
on TV
about their grief:
dramatic renderings
of their reactions
a symphony of self-indulgence
“I heard the news and I screamed
I cried
I just broke down sobbing
I was screaming
so loud, I was
I
I
I”
I am standing in the grocery store
silent
I lost that part of my voice and I am
trying
to keep my legs and I can’t
breathe
because the cereal he ate
when I was small is gone
They don’t have it anymore,
this artifact of him
and I see him in the Special K, the Lucky Charms, the Froot Loops
I see him lying there with no heartbeat and no teeth
I see the vacancy like a spotlight and there is no air left
for screaming sobbing crying
for walking past the void
and into life.
It just occurred to me that my house only has four windows in the entire place. That’s fewer than I had in my bedroom at the last place I lived. And I started to post something about it, basically like what the fuck guys, no wonder I’m in a funk… and then I thought about how that often leads folks to a presumption of ingratitude, wherein an acknowledgement of something that makes you sad is dismissed because look at all these other things that SHOULDN’T make you sad, and why can’t you just shove this heavy thing out of the way to give yourself a better view of the things we think are pretty? And that leads to the remembrance of all the times that people have said, not to me necessarily but just thrown out on social media, that either you are in complete control of your own happiness and are making a decision to be depressed because there is ALWAYS a bright side or that depression is some sort of noble badge you get to wear as a result of having weathered so many of life’s metaphorical storms with strength and grace, and both of those are of course utter bullshit.
Sadness is acute, and you are allowed to have that even when other things don’t make you sad. And depression is pervasive; it gets deep into your head and the reality is that sometimes you cannot see the good and sometimes there really isn’t any good (I swear if you tell me it’s good to just be breathing I will wish a swarm of yellowjackets upon your netherparts) and it’s not about where you’ve been, it’s not a sign of strength or weakness or malignant character, it simply IS. And sometimes there is help, and sometimes you just need to live in that. Sometimes you just need to have acknowledged that yes, there really aren’t enough windows in this place. Tomorrow I will get up and go to work and continue to find joy in many things, but for right this minute, in the midst of all the Christmas lights and joyful kids and central heat and air, let me please be sad about this thing, and let that be okay.
Pushing a decade or so ago, now
before we knew who
or what we were
you were traveling
Your words popped up periodically:
“Gas is stupid expensive here,”
“Do you know this song by Ween?”
“I’m lying on a picnic table somewhere in Virginia, looking up
but it’s cloudy and I can’t see what the moon looks like from here.”
So I sent you a picture from my bedroom window, looking out
The moon in a clear sky, small and grainy in the black.
When you returned you said it took you twice as long to get where you were going
because of all the conversation
I apologized and you said that it was worth it
just to see the moon from where I was.
Tonight I’m waiting
The moon is high above the highway and the brake lights on the cars ahead
remind me of the way we used to talk
about the fluid physics of time.
Tomorrow night, from somewhere in Virginia
you’ll step out of the car and let me know
you’re headed home.
This is what it feels like
(I don’t know)
to be kept out, sent to the back,
inked with numbers like cattle
(I bought my ink with dollar bills
you sold your soul to make)
This is what it feels like, one tenth of a percent
to send my child out, brown eyes
thick lips, pants sagged and face
inked like you don’t know
he never pulled the trigger
White as I am
you can’t tell,
arms scabbed and ribs shining
like blades in the street light
You can’t tell
I held that belly, sunken now
in the palm of my hand when he came home
small as life
You can’t tell
I wear my whiteness like armor
(you don’t know)
protect me when I walk at night, keep me in the car
when I get pulled
my brake lights shot like Walter Scott’s but I’m alright
It’s just a warning
Careful now,
don’t get hurt.
I know this
My breasts
(no matter how small)
my ass is a beacon, shining out
spotlights on the fact that I am there
to be taken
that you can have the thing that I have never
until right now
given up one hundred percent voluntarily because I know
from the time I was 14 years old
that if you want it
you’re going to take it
anyway
This is how it feels
(I don’t know)
to be safe in the world
This is how it feels
(I don’t know)
to be safe
This is how it feels
(I know this, now)
to be helpless, to lie flat still frozen
in the dark to wait
for the things that gobbled up the blacks the Jews the
mouthy women the men crawling on the street with needles in their veins
the infants pulled to term and shit out on the sidewalk
screaming with addiction while the pro-life movement dangles formula and warmth
above their heads, the cost of daring to be born
to be sacrificed to hungry priests to be grown up
cut and bleeding
on the bathroom floor
This is what it feels like
(I don’t know)
to be quiet, watching, waiting
until they come for us.
In the middle of the night
he is lit from behind, the glow of the hall light
shining through his skin and I want to ask him
all the things that end in
Yes,
the things that someone else with
better words and softer, paler edges
could spin into the silk of romance and something like
forever but the night
is heavy with the weight of day and though I can see him
my eyes are closed and somehow I can only ask for the one thing
that’s immediate:
water.
When his shadow crosses mine again he brings me all the answers
in a paper cup
and holds it steady till I rise to drink.
This is where they’ll find you
tattered and sore
what did you think would happen when you opened
(your mouth
your eyes)
your legs?
This is where they’ll find you,
painted on smile, don’t open
your mouth
(your eyes
your legs)
he’s always been a good boy
I heard he had a perfect credit score.
This is where they’ll find you,
battered and whole
hands tied feet bare
silent asking
What did I think would happen
when I opened
(my mouth
my eyes)
my legs?
This is where they’ll find you,
mask on, hands off, clothes buttoned up
tight
What did they think would happen when you opened
(your mouth your eyes your legs
your mouth your eyes)
the chamber?
This is where they’ll find you
standing
on the mountain that they built
This is where they’ll find you
when they close their mouths
their eyes
This is where they’ll find you.
Pull the trigger.
