Aubade with PTSD
This morning my mind draws about me as a lead shawl fitted to me that I’ve knitted until my hands are raw and draped about my shoulders, a chain over the bow of a boat clutching to the anchor, waiting for harbor, only there’s this sick rocking motion that heaves with the churning weather. It forces a leaning-to-and-fro that I can’t control, gathering inside of the hollowed-out garden inside my belly (I need control). I dreamed of him last night, hundreds of him falling from the sky, marionettes, identical faceless soldiers from a cookie cutter marched one-two over every inch of the battlefield (always came in numbers). I couldn’t see his green eyes anymore. I don’t hate green eyes anymore. I am not winter’s battlefield. I’ve worn the laurels of warmth. I’ve cradled myself in gentleness, drawn to me bright beads of beauty, the way the spring comes like a thunderclap in Virginia, suddenly everything moves from grey to the vivid blues and pinks of new mornings. I speak kindness to myself, hoping to sow these seeds inside that garden, hoping that another year will pass and I will not get a card on my birthday, reminding me that he knows where to find me. I remind myself that I am safe, safe, safety is not something out of my reach (I am safe) but rather it is something I have toiled over and tended (safe, still and quiet). I’ve spent years building this house into a home.
Architects in late October
I remember when I carried you out of the white house, slung over my shoulder, your silver heels sparkling in the moonlight. The way you crossed and uncrossed your ankles, you clung to the fuzz of my jacket, you threw up on my shoes, and yes, you were sorry, and someone must have slipped something into your drink. Some guy was always trying to ride you to the end, nevermind the means, but hey, fuck them, anyway. Fuck the guys in their houses stuffed with the stench of red cups and body spray, tin tubs filled with leftover liquor from mom and dad’s cabinet, beer soaked carpets and Boone’s farm wine, bodies colliding like atoms to house music on the stereo. Bodies everywhere pressed in on us, touching us from all sides. Guys groped my ass and tits to find the music’s rhythm. You were stumble-dizzy when a guy tried to pick you up and take you somewhere to lie down. I punched him and carried you into the night, into the crisp darkness, the smell of snow on the air, woven of leaves as heralds on the ground, the not-yet-winter night with the breathing sky. You trembled and I set you down gently on the steps, held your hand as we walked down to the diner where they knew our names. Your mascara was running. I licked my thumb and cleaned your face, bought you coffee and plain toast. We were at the center of our universe in the clear night while the night breathed in rhythm, smoke from the factory puffing into great clouds and the dim haze of new days and new bodies to taste and map and conquer. We stayed talking until 3 am, architects building towers of jams.
Brighton Beach (1983)
No matter how many times I nestle my cheek
on the smooth cold stones, I can’t quite understand
what they are trying to say. They thrum. It’s soft,
is Lake Superior singing? If her heartbeats were always
lub, an exhalation of sorts ringing from my tailbone
up through and out my hair, down my braids, down
everything. Trains in the distance, their thick whistle
slick on spring cold skin. Steel mills chewing the land.
Maybe she’s whispering her secrets, all the bodies lost
beneath the cold, perfectly preserved because the lake
deeps never warm enough to eat the evidence. What
is down there? Does she have my red jelly sandal?
Do her white caps flick hair ties and plastic beads,
the bracelet lost when the undertow began to bite
and I screamed, when he threw me in for a joke,
my breath a fog subsumed beneath the glassy stills
which cranked and churned beneath, when he said
don’t tell your mother after fishing me out by one
long braid, tossing me on the shore, rocks grinding
into my thighs, the beach memorizing the shape
of my knee, the mark on my hip, the yellow bikini’s
untied strings loosened on the left from my kicking.
Maybe she’s mother. If I listen very closely, close my
eyes, let the sun push me into the rock. She’s whispering.
Eat what they throw at you, baby girl, don’t duck
or drown. You’re my mermaid. You’re meant to sing.
Subscribers can read all our publications by logging in. |
___________________________________