My Mother in Telephone Calls.

 I sip this tea: herbal, acai berry, ginseng:

Desperate for healing

But mostly overwhelmed:

What does it mean to be a Mother?

I live strive rise up every morning wanting to heal myself and all the past generations

Lay this mantle on both my shoulders

Struggle even just to walk and wonder: How did I get here?

I speak to my mother on the phone and she reminds me

That parents in her day took their children to the cellar and beat them with straps

"Not that I'm saying to do that, but I'm just saying", she says.

I know it

I know and I remember

"I feared my parents," she says.

Yes, I know. You made me fear you too: I feared you.

And so when the towel is not hung up in the bathroom

And the candy wrappers are not in the trash

And I creep into my child's bathroom at two in the morning to clean the toilet even when it is their job am I healing generational trauma or spoiling my teenagers into oblivion: did we gain so much from our pain?

Better to sit across from your teen with hot cocoa than have them hide in their room from you, pronounce the words yes ma'am or yes sir with trembling lips until one day they stride confidently past you because they grew up and realized that you were nothing good for them and you didn't know what the actual fuck you were doing.

I know you did your best.

What you thought was best.

I feared you.

So I was obedient.

Was it worth it?

Three Generation Picture

I remember taking my first one at my grandmother's house
And my mother stood behind me smiling and my grandmother behind her: smiling
And the small Christmas tree in the background
That was the same year I carved my name on the underside of the coffee table in their living room
Where I used to sleep on the couch and be afraid of the cuckoo clock in the darkness
I carved my name because I was there
And I was there
And I was there

Years later my mother found the carving and wanted to scold me but the handwriting was so different she knew I'd done it so long before; what could she say?

But I remembered the feeling so fiercely and checked it every year when I slept on the couch to make sure it was still there: I was still there...

My daughter mostly spends time in her room writing or animating or watching videos and I feel the guilt of a guilty parent who understands her loneliness and simultaneously understands there is no way for me to solve it: growing up too fast with her monster vocabulary but her childish mind and maturing figure - why? Why can't things just happen the way they were meant to? The way they so often happen in your mind...

My mother drove away this morning and I'm left with smells of her in the guest bathroom: mixture of Light Days even though she is well into menopause (I guess I'll understand it ten years from now) and strawberry scented hair spray always the chemicals, the alcoholic subtext that she is from a generation that did not care that they destroyed the environment because none of that seemed real to them and last night she asked me "Why do you think your children both have anxiety? Why do so many kids today have anxiety? Is it the school shootings?"

And I don't know what to say to her, remembering my daughter crouching in her assigned hiding space before we decided we had to homeschool and saying "My hiding spot is not good enough; I know they will find me."

I don't want to take her Lovey away from her. Or the way she still sucks her thumb. Grey-pink rabbit clutched in her hands with still-baby-like knuckles even though I'm stashing pads for Tweens under the sink in her bathroom

I'm in the middle mourning both of them and they're very much alive.

My mother who will never know herself and my daughter who knows it all too well and me who can't repair either one of them.

Disappointment Part 2.

There is a cheap smattering of snow on the ground this morning
The kind that looks pretty but makes mud
And I want to feel its magic but
Mostly I feel disappointment

The other day you hid in your laundry closet naked
And when I came in the door you poked your head around the corned and said
I don't like that look...
What look? I said
You said - you always look disappointed.

I hear it from my daughter too: mom you look so disappointed in me

And it's funny because I am the opposite of disappointed in everyone

I see their smoldering potential oozing from every pore of their bodies

It's me. See.

It's me that seems disappointing.

That face isn't for you, Love. That face was never for you.

Ode to My Son This Morning

Watching my son dance
Is like watching
My own self-worth
Something ever and swiftly fading
But there is this one gorgeous piece of me
Out there in the world
Spinning
Jumping feet into the air
A beautiful Phoenix
On Fire.

Jar of Anxiety

This morning you brought me your jar of glitter
Because I told you I was having anxiety
And you wanted to help
And you have it every day
And I stare at my computer
And I pay attention to my other partner
And I run away from my home with you
I am not a good mother.

A Ponderance of Real Life

This kind of exhaustion didn't come when I was young
I stayed up with mugs filled with black coffee or cheap Sheetz cappuccino writing -
Endless pillars of words stacking one on another:
Coliseums built with my night times.

Today I cannot bring myself to walk back out to the car to pick up my prescription at the local CVS on Merrimon: a five minute drive.

Today the dark circles aren't hidden by the wire rims of my glasses.

Today I want to make a lasagna and yet...

And yet.

The house stands firm and occupied but not clean. Not ready for visitors, even though I'm lonely.

I remember living alone in a dorm room with floating candles I lit for poetry parties with my literary friends and I felt so special and empowered and now I long for the fantasy of what "grown-up" would mean:

space of my own:

freedom to grow -

Because just now I feel confined in my inability to find alone-ness without loneliness
Confined by my need to ferry children to their places
Confined by the necessity of nurturing everyone around me
Who will nurture me?

It builds up behind my forehead like stopped up sinks with gallons of water

I want the bursting but the bursting is destructive and I...

I am not destructive.

I am tired.

And I am kind.

And I am too quiet.

And I am screaming/silent.

A Mother in the Bathroom

Little Girl
Today
I read to you
While you washed in the shower
I read to you
Because the towels make you nervous,
Being alone makes you afraid -

I,
The Great Protector,
My feet on the washer while it buzzes circles
I,
The Great Protector,
Turn each page like the last diamond
I,
The Great Protector,
Wool socks, torn jeans: threadbearing
I,
The Great Protector:

My voice is the exorcism of Shadows.

These hands
That fold this laundry,
That cook these meals,
That dust the staircase,
These hands that pull the curtain closed in the bathroom,
That pull up the bedsheets in the bedroom -

These hands that forget how to write
Forget how to play music
Forget how to draw intricately...
These hands are how you know me
How you understand
They free you.
They free you.

On Keeping My Eyes Closed

Rest is fleeting.
Hard to find it
In unfamiliar places
Rooms with doll faces
Open windows that make you freezing
When it's not raining
Clocks changing
The sound of ticking
Worry...

My eyes are so heavy but rest doesn't just come
It's not free
I have never been one to relax my shoulders
And unclench my jaw
And fall into something peaceful

It is always marauding
A rampage of fiery images flashing
Some might say it was a bit of bad food
But I know
It is all I shove down all day
While I stare at liquid energy
And scrub out the moldy washer
Thoughts of different pathways and futures
And the past tense of women's rights
And how it all seems to be slipping under something...

I can always find my daughter's stuffed bunny.
It doesn't matter where she leaves it
By the canoe rental
On a grocery store shelf
Under the passenger's seat of the car
Behind the door
Mothers are good at finding things for other people
It's ourselves we're afraid we've lost.

To my Daughter in the Future

You are sitting at the kitchen table
Lavender hoodie with silver sparkles
Headphones; rabbit lovey; Skylanders Giant
You are ten years old and sometimes
I forget as I'm watching your brother flash before my eyes
That you, too, are growing up
So fast
Faster than I can count or comprehend;
It's October
And you are typing out a horror screenplay
And you are hoping we, your family, will act it out
So many things you want to see
Come to fruition
And you have had so many failures:
A stand where no one bought your lemonade
And a booth of clay figures but no one stopped to look
And a restaurant made out of black wooden cubes in our side yard
And the neighbors said they'd stop by later... but they didn't.
Your chin has not lowered to disappointment
You charge headlong into each new battle: hopeful
This time it will happen
This time it will come
This time I will...
And you believe it like older women no longer can and I
Pray with every part of my mortal soul and immortal spirit that you will never allow
Anything
To douse your flame
Oh, Daughter, how they will try
And spray you with their words
And hunt you down with their hands and fingers
How they will shout from their car windows
And how they will look down their noses and they will make fun
Of things that you spent hours creating - someday you will feel knocked down and you will want to give up but you must not do this.
Remember that girl
That ten year old girl in her lavender hoodie
With the silver sparkles
And a spunky new hair cut that shows off her faery nature
Do not forget her
Cut out her picture and post it on your bathroom mirror
She is in you. She is in you.

Not A Lioness?

I want you to be a lioness
Fierce
Fearless
Prowling
Leader

I want you to jump from cliffs into raging waters
Dive to the bottom
Strong swimming along with the waves
Drawing deep breaths at the surface
Screaming up and waving to friends at the top
You were the first one: you dared to dive

I want you to sing at the top of your lungs on massive road trips
Grip thick ropes of vine in the jungle
Break jawbones if you need to
And carry big sticks through back alleys.

I want you to hold hands with your friends
And kiss their mouths
And water plants in your own blazing garden
And sleep under the night sky by yourself in the desert
Making friends with coyotes

I want you to get on a plane
I want you to pay your own way
Pave your own way
Try exotic foods
Paint pictures with your toes
Ride whales
Swim with dolphins
Spread your wings wide over canyons
Howl at the moon like the warrior goddess you were born to be

And I...

There are days I cannot move from my stool at the counter

Days where all I can do is move the laundry
From washer to dryer
Small motions
Monotonous

Days where sitting on the porch is the only vacation

Days where I cry in the kitchen over past lovers

Days where I am invited out and instead I stay in doing nothing

I stare at screens and beg you not to

How will you
Become Yourself
Without Myself Becoming Me?

The White-ness of the Whale (The Plight of the Stay at Home Mother Part 2)

I used to be
A literary scholar

I waxed poetic about
whales and whiteness and waves and metaphors that meant: the personification of the plight of Ireland.

I never
even
liked
that
book

But Melville was somehow better

Than laundry/dishes/dishracks/mud-stained carpets/sweeping/washing windows/endless washing

Somehow

Standing in front of thirty unrelated teenagers felt like living

And now
Sitting in front of a computer screen with cups of coffee and trying to find something to do with my useless time I can't help feeling like

Failing

Is all that I ever accomplish

No sooner have I learned how to do something than that something changes and I'm supposed to

cherish every moment

I just wonder:

What has become of me.

The Plight of the Stay-At-Home Mother

Nothing really happens.

At other jobs there is the illusion of things happening.
Each day a little different.
Something you can call "adventure" or
"heroism": maybe you "saved the day" today

at work

at your job

And even if

In the grand scheme of things

Your job affects

Literally nothing...

You are able to feel:

powerful
empowered
whole
useful
interesting
needed
necessary

[employed]

We are told our whole lives that our occupation "defines us"

And now...

When we sit at home and our children cry over a bad school day and homework is not done and you do not want to argue about whether or not she can watch Octonauts while writing the letter that is a result of her teacher handing out a "red card"

We do not
Feel
[powerful/empowered/useful/interesting/needed/necessary]
employed.

We feel.

Alone
Lonely
Sad
Verklempt
Frustrated
Useless
tired

tired

tired.

Purposeless-ness

I don't belong anywhere
Just now
Not here in the kitchen
Sitting at the island
Tapping at the keyboard.

I don't belong upstairs
Because there is nothing to do
And so. much. of my life is filled with empty places
Where there is so much I want to do
And nothing I can do.
Not in that moment of nothingness because
If I practice or write or change or move I will be interrupted

Like now

I'm trying to write poetry because I no longer felt comfortable sitting next to you
But I'm not allowed to do that
No
You have to ask me questions
Even though you said
this must be boring for me
And you usually do this yourself

I don't understand that
Because maybe there are times that I just don't know exist
But I think about all the times I've sat next to you and now when I'm silent I must be bored because I'm choosing to be quiet
I do not have words to last endlessly through the day
to parcel out all through the night
To entertain everyone
Sometimes someone else needs to take over
I can't be in charge of all of the words all of the time
I need you to take some of that pressure away from me
Don't you know what it's like to sit in the house all day while it's raining and feel like the whole of your purpose is in cleaning the gritty grease off the stove-top and that is the most important significant thing about your day and you know that's sad and you desperately want to change it but you can't without giving up yet another part of yourself
The thing you spend your money on
$200
$200
$200

How many other things could we do with $200

But somehow giving that up feels like giving up the air I'm breathing because if I don't spend that money every month and go to that class what will I be but a dried up no good nothing stay-at-home-mother who knows no one who does nothing significant - stop telling me mothering is significant because maybe it is but no one talks about anyone's mother - they only talk about them. You don't get to be a famous mother you get to have a famous child but you are still no one.  You are still a Shadow Person - that is all you will ever be: short order cook, house maid, taxi-drive: Mother.  It is not a glorious profession.  It drains you until there is nothing left but a worn out wilted has been flower.  The good years lost while you sat and pondered who you even were anymore and when you came out on the other side

You didn't fucking know.

On Reading Walden

In the morning she wakes
Like a sad angel from her dreams
And puts aside her hard-copy second printing of Thoreau's "Walden Pond" and tries to think about the shower or a cup of hard-earned tea
But her throat is closing with the overwhelming feeling of
Helplessness
Of drowning
The helpless drowning emptiness of losing all she worked so hard for
in the breath on an instant
In the cramming of spelling words
In the clearing of tears
In the stain on the counter
And the buttered-bread dishes in the sink.

A Mother's Afternoon

Lunch time grovels and hounds at your bare toes on the freezing hardwood,
Head throbs with the sleep you missed,
Tossing,
Turning,
Tired tears tumbling out, tumbling over scrambled bed sheets.

They are hungry,
They are at one another because of it
And so it is your duty to try and fix the problem

Even if you would rather hide your face under covers
Or stand long in the steaming shower
Or sit in your fleece blanket with warm tea and vapors pouring into your gaping nostrils...

Present is now -
And the floor shakes with their pounding.

You swallow the lump in your throat:
Your wish to sit and simply worry away the day,
And decide to heat up the pizza,
To put together the sandwich

To trudge on,
Ever on
Til Evening.

I see you coughing:
Sick.
Again.

I feel helpless
Wrong
And...
helpless.

No words.

The lifeguard looks up at me, questioning,
She doesn't say anything out loud,
But I can read her face:
Why would you bring her swimming?  What were you thinking?
As you throw up in the mulchy flowerbed around the poolside.

I didn't want you to miss it.

I lay in the borrowed bed and stare up at the white ceiling - the kind with the little bumps
And the tears spurt out of me, dank, dark, they pour down my cheeks
Shaking my chest - my whole body

You hold your bunny and say,
It's hard to breathe, Mom.  It's hard to breathe.

I rub more Vicks Vapor Rub on your chest
It sinks in - up and down - a cavernous divet
I know what that means but don't want to admit it

You have another coughing bout.
More vomit.

I scrub it off of the bathroom floor.
Your bathing suit hangs over the bathtub:
         drip,
                  drip,
         drip...
The sound of feeling guilty.

A Strange Creature

You work hard
Indulge each wish, longing, pulsation,
Fear,
You thumb through and finger stray hairs
Run a plastic blue comb over tangled strands
After steaming shower and soothing suds
Pull nightshirts over small heads
Put the toothpaste on the brushes and run them over tiny teeth in put-on voices
Of old men, opera singers, and gallant ladies
Tuck under pink and Spiderman covers on the
Cleanest sheets you can muster this week.

The kitchen counters are strewn with spaghetti sauce dishes,
Overturned spices,
Bread crumbs,
Smeared and spattered kettles
And pieces of old popcorn.

You stuff your hands, stiff, into the still cold water
Silently praying for some sort of respite,
Scrubbing, scrubbing soap and grime, grit and tears
All blending together under your chewed fingernails:
You didn't have time to properly clip them.

The stars flicker: candles in the soft, buzzing, midnight blue God project in the great beyond.

You think of wasted years,
Wasted dreams,
Wasted food and water and old smashed pumpkins
And ex-boyfriends
And tarnished teaspoons
And calling your mother.

The dish drain drips rhythmically into the sullen stainless steel of the much-abused sink:
You use it for everything.

Your son's reading light is blazing red, glowing harsh into the brown shadows around the bunk beds.
Your daughter is snug but the screen is burning near her wide chocolate eyes.
You think about sex
And reading the book you so wanted to finish
And working on your writing
But your body is weary and there is no time for wanton things.

Your fingers are wrinkled as the covers float and shift over your bare shoulders.
The night is quiet, still, lonely
And instead of longing for alone-ness you feel in the pit of your belly
A longing for touch and closeness and little-girl hair on falling hard on your clavicle
And the tugging at your sleeve that asks for a turkey sandwich with the crusts cut off
And you laugh a little at yourself, and your strange-ness
And the creature you have somehow unwittingly become.

The Talk Beside the Black Water

I saw you dancing
In the fire-light of the pink sunset
and I wanted to take a picture,
but the camera sat wasted
On the kitchen counter
So this morning I am forced to
Paint it with the inaccurate and
Fumbling paintbrush of words.

The English language fondles
but cannot deliver
    Your wild hair in terrifying,
Lovely wisps
     And chubby arms stretching
Across black waves
Not knowing, really, how sea
goes on forever
And digging dangerously
in close sand as the
tide came in
    I beckoned you
sit next to me
and you duge a hole to see if
water might
really fill it by
morning
   And we talked long
talks and I kissed
the place in your forehead
that dents delightfully with soft
and I watch your
New long eyelashes
flutter quick and
graceful while you
grip fresh knowledge
and hold on to fire,
taste salt-laden wind
and linger by black water
   Because no one has
   Made you fear It.

The Sea Beckons

Night envelopes the waves
and the safe, sandy, shore,
and each wave that plunders
as the tide comes in feels like
deep, shrouds offered with welcoming warm palms
and icy fingers:

                      "Come down with me!"
              The sea beckons.

I hold your hand
And let you linger only so near the water,

                   If you are kissed by its
                               Foamy Lips
                           I fear you will
                             Go Under.

Sunday Evening Post.

There was a time when a paper landed on the doorstep in the evening,
Not just morning;
Over dessert, and not just breakfast;
And there was news you hadn't heard already through blaring lights and screaming video,
And you took it in the way you wanted
Your pace, your place, your paper,
And you folded it and put it down
And it was there when  you got back
Or not;
Or it lined the hamster cage or cat litter or became the bonfire in the backyard where you roasted marshmallows and told old stories.

Tonight it is calm.  Quiet like.
Your arms are wrapped around the four-year-old little girl
And the questions are rattling through your brain:

How you will explain homosexuality
How you will encourage love
How you will be accepting
How you will find them eating healthy...

How...

And you kiss her small forehead (the one covered with purple marker)
And you side-ways smile at your son's hand in the potato chip bag
And how he chose Strawberry Shortcake and seemed embarrassed,
And you allow yourself to simply breathe...
And think of the old paper
Sailing...
Gently falling
Onto the porch-step.