Chris – Prom Night

Black hue around you.

Noises all around.

A broken necklace and missing shoes were all I cared about somehow.

A hand reached in the bushes and pulled the boy off of me while I scrambled to my feet.

The man questioned the boy first and yelled that he was not to be around me.

He turned to me and asked if I knew where I was. I didn’t–

but I didn’t reply because ‘trouble’ was my initial disposition. I ran. Ran to the farrest field to where the man could not see.

I tried to call for help, but no one could hear me. My friends were lost amongst the rows of single-filed rooms that filled our prom night group. And here I was, sleeping in the bushes and without a clue to why he ran away without me too.

He left his smell inside my dress like glue. the sweat of his hand was still on my lips from when he covered my mouth – to keep me hidden to his rue.

I never spoke a word to anyone when I made it to my room. And I never spoke to him again until he asked me to forgive him for he knew nothing else to do. Knowing what he did was wrong and he might be in trouble. I couldn’t reply. I had nothing but silence.

And it’s been that way until today when I found my voice in defiance.

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Let Me Learn You

Let me learn you.

let me flip through your pages in the mid-afternoon

allow me to read between the lines but trust the context of which I see.

Let me smell your spine to bring back memories.

Bend your pages and earmark my favorite passages.

Chapter by chapter

let me learn you.

Mother

Mother, How did I move in your body when your womb was my water? With synchronized spins and magnanimous kicks? Was it with small hiccups and countless whips? Perhaps pushes from my paws that stretched beyond the glow of globes. What a strange way to see me before meeting me. But how wonderful it must feel to hold your child before touching them. A heartbeat between iridescent walls becomes a prism that passes through our placenta — and I see you. Not with eyes, but through waves and I answered back with one sleepy foot. Cell formations build feelings as well as function and I hope you heard me; asking for forgiveness. Perhaps nine months was too gentle. I should have held tighter to the umbilical cord that held us together. I should have reached for the toughest rib not yet destroyed by the sins of my father. I should have breathed my last breathe when I knew it would be my first. Then… then I wouldn’t have to deal with this pain… stretching into this empty skin.

Eggs for Sale

Time and time again he whispered into my ear and tugged on the loops of my jeans.

“I want to give you a baby.”

The driving force of growing into your thirties has its perks, but the craving of a child is unstoppable and at most times inconvenient.

I’m not sure what led to our passion that night, but it was sexy; the kind you read about in books and tighten your legs to during movies.

Hands: everywhere.

Bodies covered in salted steam, hips swinging from the pendulum of momentum.

The release of him into me was enough to remind me what I was after. I absorbed his sperm with my subconscious like a mushroom blooming in the dark.

Babies.

I held him there, refusing to let him slip away.

All that was wrong would be wrong again.

You see, we were no longer dating. We hadn’t been for months. But as you age, you see yourself very differently alone. There’s a sudden need for routine; a craving for the familiar. One thing was for certain: I wasn’t curious anymore. I’d been with many men, hardly one more surprising than the next. And it wasn’t the need for sex. Sex was more laborious than ever and I was aging. Twisting the skin on your neck and near your underarms is enough to make someone reevaluate habits and reaffirm self-doubt. One thing is for certain, if you are aging, so are your eggs.

Many times over the past few months I had decided I might be alone and old forever. Selfishly, no one to give me the gift I desired most; to create a life.

All I once I sat up in the bed and coughed to release his life from entering mine.

Is this what I have come to? Hormones become a Human?

My not-yet-thirty year-old body is not yet ready to be responsible for the passion of a one-night stand with an exhausted lover!

 

…But maybe tomorrow.

Meditation

I stare among the women in crossed-legged seated postures and wonder if I’ll ever get there. Smiles strung along their faces. They’ve made it. They have found some place to call home. They pull love and compassion from places I’ve never heard of; from some chakra of the month. I still pull my tears back. The only colorful line up are my excel spreadsheets during fundraising campaigns and no one seems to care how long I haven’t been smiling. Breathe. Count to three. Allow the inner critic to wash away. I need more inner goddess, that’s for sure. Do you get that from kombucha? Taking pictures in a yoga pose? Can you see me now? Calling for help. Breathe. Maybe I’m just jealous of all the love they seem to receive. An internal healing from tailbone to sun salutations. I wish there was a bandaid big enough to cover the wounds I have. The sands of time have only stung like salt ripe on my flesh. “Moving forward” was silly advice. I now exhale my problems onto the next person. Deep, cursed excerpts of my ode to humanity and love and family and relationships and him and… breathe. I guess maybe I am jealous of those smiles stretched across their faces. And maybe… just maybe, I’ll find my own love in my crossed-legged meditation too.

Roots

Roots

Thick as blood

Tied to the vows of the womb we shared

Somewhere.

A woman’s bond through 

Heartbeat and good intentions

Hailed from a broken ceiling,

Caused by a closed door.

Roots

Spread into rivers,

Deltas of the divine

Carry me to your Sirens,

Lead me to my sister’s.

Roots

String me in your Fate

Wrap me in Being

Tell me a love story

And wake me when my roots

Have finally touched the sky.

Orders for The Fourth Wave Brigade

Fertilize the Feminist for the Fourth wave.

She is needed for the brigade. 

Arm her with mirror

And tell her to call it Goddess.

Arm her with an audience 

And tell her to call them Sisters.

Arm her with a voice

And tell her to call it Ancestor.

The Fourth Wave rises in Her name.

Arms unfolded, fists up in rage.

Steady as you watch her days.

Mother moon plays tricks on the tide,

Tempting one to hide.

She is needed for the brigade.

Unfinished feminism forms in the wake.

She drifts closer a little each time,

But you must show her the prize;

The Fifth is on the rise!

Complexities and Cosmos

But have you heard her voice?
Angry as the caged bird. And somehow she whistles stardust into my sands of time.
Her voice picks up the sea and smoothes it like fresh sheets in the morning. Full of complexities and cosmos of which I consume. Bewitched. Bothered. But always begging for more.
The purpose of her walk has never been more memorable as when she stumbled in after that Tuesday night. Hair risen on her thighs. Arms lifted in the air to expose her essence through unshaven pits. She growls a purr of exhaustion and I leap to help her limbs. Tumble meaningless words between tongues and wait for the fire to burn out.
Today she gives herself a new name. She breaks the rib of her father and pulls it from her cage. She uses it to carve new letters of independence with rage.
With a roll of her eyes as a punctuation of pride, she laughs a charming tune of the caged bird.
And I watch her like static, anticipating and appreciating the rare glimpse of clarity through all the noise.