I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.

It has been a long time since I had any desire to write here.

My astral children grow, at unusual paces. But then they are unusual, and wonders in their own ways.

My body children grow, at usual paces. And I find it too fast too far, and yet marvellous. It was Transformers and playgrounds, and now it is university — fine arts — for one, a newly minted man and yet a man, and the first crush, pillow fights and Facetime, the summer between grade 6 and 7, for the other. Both are kind and caring. My younger son has taken up music this summer, launching himself at the piano, and in his playing I remember much. They are both brave in their own ways, and their ways are different and we are a family.

I have remarried and although I am very bad at it, slowly it forms a home.

I have not been with San nor spoken with him for a long time.

And now I never will, for he is dead.

That is what drove me here; the end of narrative that comes to us all. True death, of the flesh. It has been true for several weeks now, but there is no hurry to become used to it because it will not change.

I sing in the car once or twice a week, to think on it and grieve. A small slice to honour what was us.

At first I felt odd, like I should have known (and I did not), or that something should have changed (and it did not.) Then I missed him in a way I have not since we parted. Once it was no longer possible to have to wonder if we should have done differently, because it is done, I could remember how it felt when we were together outset, and the way we grew together. And I remember how we grew apart, and tore at each other. But against the grave, I think I prefer to remember the inception.

A cold and broken hallelujah indeed, but a hallelujah nonetheless.

Farewell, beloved. May your next life be even richer than the last.

Poetry month #6: Cult queen at the grocery store

I can’t boil water
‘Cause I haven’t got a pot
I’m really that much better
Hiding bodies in a plot
But the economy’s in downturn
And supply exceeds demand
No one needs a priestess to
Divine their dark commands

Get some bananas and a loaf of bread
Some milk and maybe eggs
A good sharp knife will do the job —
Oh you meant chicken legs
I think there is a special on
Olives down in aisle four
But don’t forget the psychopath
Who’s waiting at the door

 

Poetry month #5: Midlife crisis

Should I buy a

Little red convertible,
Little red convertible,
Little red convertible
Will you sell it in reversible
In case I feel like black today

Got the mortgage and children
Was the pick and was the pan
Got myself a chart of gold stars
And a very solid man
Seen the sun rise with a newborn
Seen the sun set for a friend
The only thing I haven’t found
Is who it is that has

Little red convertible,
Little red convertible,
Little red convertible
Will you sell it in reversible
In case I feel like black today

 

Poetry month #4: The post-divorce prose poem

I had it on a t-shirt back when Beat It was new, and I was ready to wear, if not my heart, then at least my slogan on my sleeve. Rainbows and unicorns: If you love something, set it free…

It wasn’t free, our divorce. It cost me in self-respect. It cost my ego more; the end of perfect love, the end of imperfect love, the end. The end. I packed. I started with a new set of sheets, and then the sheets needed a bed, and the bed needed a home. I talked to our children as I had not, when there was less explaining to do.

Then you came back, free, of me. And I free of you. And free of the old, we care not just for each other but for ourselves. No battering rams against doors that gave way before; a knock. A calling-card. I like your card; the edges sometimes ragged, the black band, the new address. Your name gives me the thrill it ever did. A calling card in this electronic age. Is commitment a vestigial organ?

If it comes back to you it is yours. But isn’t that what we said the first time? Well, I don’t care. I may no longer wear slogans on my sleeve but I will wear you on my arm for this encore.

Poetry month #3: 2 o’clock

It’s the call.
The naked part that watches for the tiger sits up:
That catch in the voice at the other end speaks
A frailty:
Magdalynn? Lynn? George?
There’s been —
Something’s happened —
I don’t know how to say this —
I’m sorry to have to —
Before it was the 2 o’clock this,
The 4:30 that but now, even cancelling
(Because people do cancel; we are considerate like that)
There is then then,
But now there is only the now.
I’m coming.
I’m here,
What did they say —
What happened —
Tell me —
(Oh god, don’t tell me. Just – don’t.)
One day, perhaps, there will be a 2 o’clock again.
At least for some.
Let it be for mine.

Poetry month #2: Cleopatra’s enlightenment

Cleopatra’s enlightenment

Antony’s dead; what’s a single mother to do?
Caesarion thinks he’s a pharaoh —
The twins are driving me crazy and
Ptolemy’s outgrown his shoes again

Oh yes, I thought about the asp,
Staring down the price of figs
But though I would lose Egypt to roam
This word gave me pause: Stepmother.

Poetry month: Do this

I have been silent. But it is poetry month so I will write 30 very poor poems, or drafts, or what have you.

Do this

Do this, do this, do this
At work and stop for gas
The slow pump; the authorization
Crawling, the hissing,
Kneeling bus in my lane and
An old lady doing a waltz
To cross; lost the light.
The light fades with the
Car door; a slam more than
Is absolutely — garbage cans
Out again why hello to you too
How are…the weather’s…have
to run.
Running down the hall comes the
Toddler, a boo-boo, a boo-boo mummy,
And his brother one wrong on the spelling —
Ham! Daddy made ham! And peas and rice
And — don’t flick that — spill that —
Talk to your brother that —
Did he get his milk? What did you do
Today — look at the time.
Yes you may have a cookie.
No, brush your teeth.
Yes, time for a story
If it is short — I like this one,
The end.
The end.
Hugs. Kisses.
One more kiss.
For me.
Tuckins.
Tuck. in.
Do this.

It seems I should write

There is at once much to say, and very little. San and I attempt to be friends, crossing rushing water on slippery rock, I would say, except I am not certain there is another shore. As for the water, I do not step and yet I step.

Love calls you by your name – Leonard Cohen

The bed to lie in

Slept inside the closet as a dark-eyed little girl,
A louvered door without a lock between her and the world
Rug burn on her knees, setting out to please

Met a fairy on the road beneath a silver moon
Fell into a thicket-dance of starlit shimmer tunes
Runes all down her arms, sinking in the poet’s charms

Where’s she gonna sleep tonight,
Where’s she gonna sleep tonight

Felt nubby polyester sheets inside the college dorm
Stealing secret kisses there to punctuate the storms
Always hiding down the hall, ignoring class’s call

Paced the hotel room before her master’s funeral
Watched the sun rise anyway as though there’d still be Earth
Saving every other breath, for whispers after death

Where’s she gonna sleep tonight,
Where’s she gonna sleep tonight

Spiralled down the heartbeats of her soulmate’s rhythmic chest
Thorns between the rose petals scenting all the rest
Letting go the sting, to wear a wedding ring

Her fingertips loosening,
Loosening, losing their grip on
The grip on that wakening wave
Losing that wakening wave –

Cradled babies through the milky scent of mother’s night
Watching constellations for the meaning of the rites
Laying soft-knit wraps, against the elder’s trap

Lost the rosewood bedstead in the terms of the divorced
Tore up satin sheets to weave a ward against the curse
Found the closet floor, didn’t fit her anymore

Didn’t fit her anymore.

Asked an angel lover to meet at the mattress store
Found a queen-sized bargain bed that could reform a whore
The downy feather pillow, a halo for his willow

Where’s she gonna sleep tonight,
Where’s she gonna sleep tonight