Darkness is My Closest Friend

A sudden light shines.

It seeps beneath my lids;

I will not let you in!

Darkness is my closest friend.

Don’t ask me questions 
you do not want me to answer.

Hope you’re well?  

Hope you’re in hell.

Like a flashlight my father carried 
when he searched for me –

I see the flare bouncing across the field.

You humiliated me.  Why is there no trust?

Of what are you afraid – that I’ll have a friend?

Darkness is my closest friend.

I’m humiliated by the light. 

Let me hide in the shadow of silence.

Is there a sound?

A sudden light shines

illuminating all I thought I knew

as truth to be other,

bouncing its way across the field

of my dreams.  My hopes are dashed.

And you hope I’m well.   

This is hell.

A sudden light shines.

I turn it off and pull the covers

over my head, pretending to be still

in bed, or am I dead?

A sudden light shines

across my face startling me.

“Who is that?” asks the boy at my side

I’ve been trying so hard to impress

that I am old enough to be out after dark.

He laughs.  They all laughed at me – or at my father.

Was there any difference?  Weren't we one in the same?

“You don’t need friends,” he said one night, 

sucking on the long bit of his pipe. 

The smell of tobacco made me ill. 

You’ve taken away my companion.

Darkness is my closest friend.

A sudden light shines

from the single bulb floating above my head.

Like a comic strip moment it pings my understanding

and explodes, showering me with shards of glass; 

they fall on my shoulders.

Darkness is my closest friend.

A sudden light shines

on the horizon and the sun appears.

A line in the sand, or on the land, across

which I will not go.  I’ve gone as far as I’m allowed.

If I go any further, my father will come 

after me with his flashlight.

A sudden light feeling.

I no longer have you to plan my day

around, to spare your feelings,

or analyze your emotions.  

I can get more done now

when you’re in hell.

So, yeah, I’m well.

You?

Past Impossible

Past Impossible.

Isn’t that where I am now?

Past Possible, through Impossible, right on to Past Impossible.

They are towns on a highway populated by thoughts of people 
I once knew. Did they move, or did I?

What is possible?  True love?  What is that?  I don’t know.

Is it a chemical reaction, or is it something more?

I want to understand; I need to understand.

How long will I live here in the heat of this town?  
When do I get to move?

When does adulthood begin? 
Is it after parenthood?  
After marriagehood?

Is it just the next town down the road?

I waited patiently for my soul mate to arrive, 
but he was busy - too busy on the road to some

other town.  If an asteroid is held in place 
by its partner in space, it’s no wonder I’ve become

untethered – swinging wildly.  
My apple wasn’t as tempting as Eve’s.

Oatmeal and bananas aren’t going to keep me 
very long, but my ever ballooning waistline will  

keep me tethered, like an anchor.  I’m too heavy 
to fly away.

My bed reminds me of you, but not for the reasons 
you might think.  I lay here – happily – reading
your discussion about something (I know not what)
with someone (I can’t remember who);
I knew love at that moment.

And now, I’m back to oatmeal and bananas, 
feeling uncomfortable in and out of my skin. 

Maybe if Eve had eaten a banana, instead.

Beyond Impossible.  
That’s where I finally pulled over, got out 
and stretched my legs.  It’s just as hot here,
but I have hope.  Eternal hope: cooler weather
is always on the horizon.

The best days of my life were on the road to 
Possible – before we realized how quickly urban

sprawl would confuse us – and the city limits changed. 

It’s hot here.  
Is this hell, Dante?  
Or is it Satan’s version of adulthood: 
Past Impossible.

Sand Talk

When I want silence - to ponder things - he can't stop talking.

When I need conversation to discuss things that really matter - like if the theatre really is dead - he doesn't get the joke.    

Life alone is often more tolerable than a life with someone who can’t be quiet. I do value his ability to banter,  and yet it’s his very need to make conversation which drives me over the dune.

I don’t need conversation as much as I need to be understood.  With understanding I can be free to share what I’ve found in my silence. Without understanding, conversation is meaningless.

Idle chatter, void of all matter.

It takes me a while to get to that comfortable space;  I don't get there with many.

In silence I gain insight. 

In silence I find out who I am. 

"I might not say anything for a while.  Try not to read too much into that.  I know, that's hard, but try." 

I stand on the sand and wiggle my toes, but I do not sink in, like I was sinking with you, being pulled in like quicksand. Can you drown in sand?

Sand in my hair,

sand in my ears,

sand under my nails,

and in the sheets,

and on my feet. 

Sand, like memories, scratches me to the point of pain. 

Throw me a rope and pull me out, but each time you tried, I only fell deeper ...

I did not desert you. I just went to a place where the sand is level, where the waves crash into the shore, but don’t take me under each time.  I’ll learn something new here.

In thirty days I’ll learn to surf. 

In sixty days, I'll learn to sail.
In ninety days, I’ll learn to be me, again.

(I added 10 days just to be literary, just like Hemingway,

but I didn’t tell you - they didn’t make it.)

I’m addicted to the conversation, to the happiness.  Without you, it’s just noise that interrupts my solitude.

The thing is – I do not hate him. He’s kind and gentle and does so much for me – he loves me more than I love him – I just can’t take the noise.

Talking to the Wind

The wind said nothing.  She stood listening – quietly – hoping to hear a word, a sound, something to tell her what she should do, but it said nothing.

She heaved the rock she was holding tightly in her hand – reached back and chucked it as far as she could.  She watched it fall, down the cliff, not reaching the water below as she’d hoped.  Her eyes welled with tears.  Even in throwing stones, she was a failure.

Her mother had promised if she’d come to the cliff at dusk and posed her question, the wind would answer her.  Her mother had described the feeling, had her believing it, that the wind would surround her, stir her up, and she would know what to do, but she didn’t.  She still had no ideas.

The tears began to find their way down her cheeks.  She could taste the salt at the corners of her mouth.  She licked her lips and sniffed.  The dampness made her face feel cool suddenly, as the wind – taunting her with its presence – whipped across her tear tracks. 

The stone continued to tumble, slowly letting gravity make its presence known, falling slowly to the shoreline.  The cliff had been in their family for years.  Her great grandparents had gotten engaged here and donated the property to the state after the house – the original homestead -  had been destroyed by a fire which spread too quickly to save their three youngest children.

And her mother swore, if you listened closely, you could still hear the children crying in the wind.  Her mother – with her crazy stories about wind and families and rituals - had no time to help her daughter, now in trouble of her own.

She leaned against the fence the state had erected to keep people from climbing down the steep embankment – to keep people like her off of the cliffs.  But why?  She, of all people, belonged on the cliffs – belonged to the cliffs, belonged to this wind.  Wasn’t that what her mother had always told her?  She belonged here. She climbed up on the fence, throwing her legs over the edge one at a time and found her footing. 

And she heard the wind say: “Fly!”

Baby Gherkins

Pickled. 

Like a cucumber.  Stewed

In vinegar to make me sour

or crunchy – and garlicky.

Like the half-sours

my brother eats when he goes

home – the kind his wife refuses

To buy, because they make

his breath stink. Pickled with stinky breath.

That’s how I feel.

Did I smell bad, too?  So offensive

You turn up your nose, or pull

your dainty hanky closer.

Did you use the sweet posies I made

That summer –

Wrapping each flower stem.

“Here” I said with a bow, with grace

and dignity like I was before

royalty. Only I wasn’t, just
in front of a girl.

Who for whatever reason

Was not interested

in receiving flowers from the likes of me –

No matter how pretty they were,

They still bore the stench

Of pickles.

At my father’s store there was a jar

Where he stored them; it was my

job to pluck one out for each

customer – I had the smallest

Hands.  The smell invaded my skin.

Is that what you found offensive?

Or was it the way my toes

Peaked out from my shoes? I saw

The looks when you took me home

At night – as you peered past me to

My house with judgment in your eyes.

You were not worthy of my affection,

Or my posies, or the pickles from my

Father’s store.  I knew you’d regret your

Haughtiness one day – But I didn’t

Tell you that then.

Not when there was still time to woo you,

With flattery and presents.  I wore

You down, then broke your heart – and

Now you know the pain you caused

Me – in high school.  The cheerleader

In your short skirt, grew frumpy and

Old and married the nerd.  What did you

Think I was after?  Love?  Revenge!

Revenge – and maybe a pickle or two.

Baby Gherkins.

Rose Garden

She can see the blossoms from her window and wants to go outside and stick her nose in them, but Mamma has warned her, twice already, not to get her dress dirty before church.  If she climbs off of the porch and treks across the side yard to Mamma’s Rose garden, she’ll be in big trouble.

The roses are gigantic this morning. From where she sits on the porch, she can see the bumble bees hopping and buzzing from one bloom to the next – taunting her, really, with their freedom.  She sighs and leans her head against the pillow, kicking her foot against the painted floor boards until the swing starts to move back and forth, its creaky rings melodically protesting.

“Sundays,” she says.  “I hate Sundays.”  She raises her voice in protest. “I don’t think God cares if my dress is soiled, Mamma.”

But Momma doesn’t answer; she’s too busy getting herself ready for church to respond.

“Besides,” she says to whomever can hear her, “God made those roses.  He made them to bloom today.  I think God wants me to smell them in my church dress.  Right, God?”

But God doesn’t answer either; He’s too busy hearing confession or prayers or something like that from the early service attendees. 

Ruth continues to kick the board, rocking the swing until the bench is perpendicular to the porch railing – back and forth – until she launches herself clear over the railing, over the hedge, and lands with a thump on the gravel driveway.  Her hands have little pebbles embedded in them.  Her dress, while still white, is torn at the lacy seam.  She looks around, realizing no one has seen her fly – and laughs.

“The bees made me do it, Mamma, and God made those bees, right?”