Unholy Imaginings

i’m not too keen on yardwork
but i am strong in my own way,
stubborn
mowing strips in my little lawn
with a silent manual mower
raking
the fallen leaves into large paper
bags that the city picks up on
tuesdays.
sometimes the older male neighbors
will give me advice for a purer lawn
mistaking
the unholy mob of broad-leafed plants
for something to be vanquished – oh no
not here!
how else could the barely blushing fleabane
eavesdrop, their heads resting on windowsills
watching
my hands as i set the table for dinner
laughing at the men who fear
us weeds?

venus, stepping forth from her porcelain shell

the cream and maroon tiles
of the mid-century bath
are lit by two candles

a great swelling
of peace fills her heart
hot rivulets of water

pour down her shoulders
soaking waves of wet
hair, cast to one side

one hand cupped
to her breastbone
her belly a rounded prayer

ophelia, drowning in a pond

afloat in a robins egg blue tub
in a 1970s cream colonial, spring sun
glints off cobalt and white tile

grief’s weight pulls her beneath
the warm soapy surface

a chicken thigh held high in one hand
fresh lemonade in the other
mouth agape, untasting

there’s something deliciously liminal
about a retort on the cusp of articulation

a punch-drunk, cerebellum-numbing feeling
reeling from a hit, piecing your surroundings together

lighting you with a lit left hook when
it looked as though i was against the ropes

after the snowstorm
trees bow deferentially
to the slick sidewalk

dark horseheads

sipping from an

icy stream

When I met L,  he told me I was trapped inside of a Raymond Carver story. I read them all but still couldn’t find a way out.  I clung to the belief that, by looking carefully enough, all of life’s answers were already written.   I didn’t know yet that it was up to me to write my own way out.  The same goes for you, in case you’re here searching.

Grief & Other Eating Disorders

I wake, grasping at the liminal sensation of running across ice-encrusted snow as a kid.  My brother and cousins sink into the soft powder.  I cross, joyfully unscathed.  Because I am small.  Because I never stop moving. 

I rise, alone in a king sized bed, barely indenting it.  The house is freezing. 

I slowly dress and drive the hilly, sleet covered streets to a bank appointment that I don’t remember making.  I prop myself up in a corner, and am startled by my reflection in the foyer glass.  A medical skeleton, gaping at the tellers’ assured, bright motions. Her own unsteady hands clutching a red folder marked “Finances”.  

“Hello!  How are you today?  I’m Lori, the loan officer.   We spoke on the phone.” She is brunette, her face seems kind and worried.  I shake her hand and consider the acceptable responses to stranger when you are starving yourself into madness.  I am invincible and utterly broken.  I am beyond all fucking reproach.   “I’m OK. A bit tired.”  

She leads me to a gray cubicle where I notice her name plate.  Thank God, because I’ve already forgotten. 

“I am not sure, yet, about anything, Mrs. Malone. I just want to understand my options.  If I stay, alone…”  

Lori smiles sympathetically as I pause to gather my thoughts.  She knows a lot about me already.  Small town divorce. 

“What would mortgage rates look like… adjusted with a single income?”

She hands me a packet of detailed paperwork and launches into an in-depth explanation of the process.  I am too distracted to follow her.  The horrible “ALONE” I mumbled earlier flits about the room and alights on her name plate, shimmering.   

M A L O N E. 

“You have amazing credit.  No matter what you decide to do, you are in a favorable financial situation.” 

I imagine myself mummifying in that ice-cold cream colonial on the hill.  Alone, sealed in and sacrificed in the fetal position.  Future bankers would find me in-situ with this impeccable fucking credit score fully intact.  And then what, Lori? Tears form in the corner of my eyes and I avoid her gaze.

Lori slides her card to me.  I enter her number into my iPhone as Lori “The Lone Loan” Malone.  I smirk, still teary-eyed.  This is the closest I’ve come to laughing in months. 

I shove the papers into my red “Finances” folder.  “Thank you!  Wonderful.  I’ll look at this and give you a call in a few weeks.  I need time to think this over.” 

Lori walks me to the door, a motherly hand on my shoulder. “I have no idea if I would be able to hold it together so well if I were in your situation.”

I throw up a little in my mouth.  It turns to a laugh, near the end, barely outstripping the pain.

priests used to awe me
thumbs dipped in black, 
edging grainy smudged crosses
on each upturned forehead 


    d
    r    
d r a a g
    a
    g

our pew of tartan skirts
a chain of firing synapses
squeezing the hand of the
next girl in restive waves 

the weight of mass lifts
we chase one another across
the frozen school parking lot
gathering about the washroom mirrors

plaid-frocked, self conscious
comparing ash marks
we all envy one smudge
an honest to goodness cross!

for what cannot be wrought
into suffering?  

amen.

when i read the painted lane warnings
|SLOW|SLOW|SLOW|SLOW|
or hit the rumble strips
SLOWDOWN SLOWDOWN SLOWDOWN

i hear my brother teasing, as we peek through
the windows of our two-tone blue van
“uh oh, here comes dead man’s curve!

i see me, skeptically scanning the sleet-laden
shoulders of the wintry interstate, boldy
declaring: “i don’t see any dead bodies!”

(i assumed the city of cleveland left casualties
of car crashes as guide-markers for others
to avoid mishaps. like on mount everest.)

i picture my brother’s face, shocked at my naivete
and mom scolding us both: “stop being morbid!
don’t take things so literally all the time!”

i still don’t see any dead men
except this fool in front of me
that doesn’t know to punch it
through the second half of the curve

he will be tall in a white cowboy hat
backs up a horse trailer on the first try
hog ties a calf in a few seconds flat

not just some dime a dozen Dallas brat
shoot for one six-two in boots, or just shy
he will be tall in a white cowboy hat

some strong, dark ranchhand with no trace of fat
a mischief-eyed wrangler telling a lie
hog ties a calf in a few seconds flat

your man has the proper two-step down pat
a bright and floating denim butterfly
he will be tall in a white cowboy hat

he will be nothing more than a tomcat
whispering bull beneath the prairie sky
hog-ties a calf in a few seconds flat

he may ask you to dance, tobacco spat
a Shiner in hand and one on his eye
he will be tall in a white cowboy hat
hog ties a calf in a few seconds flat