Mary, Full of Grace

A friend once told me the cruelest face
in the crowd of the crucifixion was not
a Roman soldier tossing dice into the dust, 
not a sobbing disciple, not even
a stone-faced observer, trying to break the monotony of
his day.
No,
the worst witness to this tragedy was
Mary. 
Could you imagine?
Your child giving his life up
for a father you hardly knew?
No ghost can ease the suffering of that moment—
I don’t care how holy. 
They say she knew, 
back in that little town of Bethlehem with
a babe in her arms that she
had given birth to greatness.
But did she know 
that every year we would celebrate
the death of her only son 
with
no regard to how she felt—
how it felt to watch her beautiful boy
Burn and
Rise 
from his own ashes?
We retell the story piece by piece 
and only briefly mention that she was there—
no one stops to utter her prayer, 
pay homage to her pain.
Mary was a mother 
who washed the bloody wounds of her son
for your benefit,
but you leave her out of the story.
You remember how her son 
set the world on fire for centuries,
but you forget how he got here—
how you got here,
head bowed before a station,
the smoke of incense 
filling your lungs with
absolution. 
It was Mary.

/

I too, lead America.

I am a humble servant,

a patch within the bricks of a crumbling school

designed to fail its students.

I am not strong enough to fix the brick and mortar, but

I can try to reach the rusting pipes that pour

students into prisons, into

gutters.

Oscar Wilde once said, “we are all in the gutters,

but some of us are looking at the stars.”

My students cannot see the stars—

the smoke from gun barrels blocks their vision.

Tomorrow, I will tell my kiddos that they can be anything,

but the world tells them they cannot.

What do I tell these children,

these children,

these children

turned to grown men by a media so pervasive

they no longer believe that they are beautiful,

innocent,

capable.

My tool box is not bottomless—

the pipes are bursting.

Besides, all of the money, philosophy, pedagogy, good intentions

are not a steel epoxy—

my students are still stopped and frisked on their way to class.

I want to believe that One Day, All Children but

what happens when those children leave the classroom behind?

Their real education is not with me,

not with my colleagues who, like Brutus,

claim to lend them an ear but betray them in two years.

My students learn more from their own world than I,

Shakespeare in hand, can ever dream to teach them.

Surviving is not in the curriculum.

Yet,

I too, teach America.

Candles

The nurses tell him it's
his Birthday, and he asks
what day of the week it is.

He does not remember,
but when he was twenty-one,
fifty-six people wrote on his facebook wall.
Smiling faces made
with a colon and parentheses.
A day recognized by fifty-six people,
now dearly departed or simply
disappeared--
leaving a digital graveyard full
of artificial memories and half-hearted sentiments.

When the nurses ask if he has plans
for the day,
he tells them about his mother.
How she always seemed to look right through him--
wishing this day had never occurred.
The nurses express their condolences,
and he wonders why.

In walks a woman with a birthday cake.
He asks her why
she never loved him, and she tells him
he is confused.
Choosing to ignore this lapse in
memory, his daughter smiles.
She tells him to make a wish.
Frail frame bent forward,
his face glows with the light of
ninety-one shimmering candles,
and he cannot help but wonder
why.

/

Every night, I bolt the door
and check under the bed for monsters.
I never thought the monster would be
on the other end of the telephone.
She asks me if he loves her,
and I say I do not know,
but I might have a new job offer.
Silence greets me, and I
swallow my tongue.
This conversation is not about me.
She asks why she does not have enough
to cover the rent,
and I tell her that I work as hard as I can.
We both live alone, but she
does not ask me what I meant.
She simply repeats the question.
I tell her,
this is an eviction notice.
I am taking back the key
to my heart,
the dusty welcome mat to my soul
kicked aside--
a "no vacancy" sign lit while
the light in my eyes has gone out.
Tomorrow, I will leave the door unlocked.

An Open Letter to Cosmopolitan Magazine

It started with CosmoGirl.
A wide eyed teen idol staring blankly
from the glossy cover,
parted lips ready to tell me what it took
to be a woman.
Fashion, feelings,
photoshopped images that told me
my body was not good enough.
Luckily, page sixty-four had a "fun new work out"
I could obsess over until the new issue
hit the shelves.

The next step was Cosmopolitan.

Dear Cosmopolitan,
I've noticed your models have not changed.
Adult women with hips as narrow as the girls
on your kid-friendly counterpart.
A doe-eyed cover girl
convincing me I have to turn the page.
On either side of her manufactured waist,
bold letters remind me I am nothing.
In the center of the magazine,
past the ads for outfits you remind me I cannot afford,
I find 136 ways to please a man.
There is not one mention of my own intentions.
Page twenty-six tells me I am not beautiful,
and the letters to the editor show no signs of
disagreement.
I'm sorry, but I cannot believe this.
As I stand in line at the grocery store,
I realize that page 109 would tell me that I cannot
cook this food to perfection. That the door
through which I will throw myself,
bags in hand,
will lead to a home that is inadequate.
If only I'd had page 108 to remind me of what
a woman's touch is.
I tell myself that I am doing just fine
without your advice, but
I always leave the store in a state of discontentment.
Please, tell your editors--

/

I never knew what to think of her howling--
her silence was more devastating.
A clever bitch who stalked her prey
and let them think
they were stalking her.
She called herself a fox,
but I saw right through her shining leather and
glossed furs.
She was a she-wolf--
traveling without a pack,
no hope for redemption.

This was in the early years.

Now, I see a broken bird of prey,
and I resent her for it.
Shot down by a clever huntsman and
locked in his cage--
she never even got what
she was searching for.
Left with a series of broken nests
made with rotten straw and
shoe-string nooses.
I wonder if she really flew at all.

And I do not know what's coming.

How often do the hunters turned hunted
survive the winter?
In the winter of her life she is slipping.
Can't go for the jugular when there is too much to lose.
Can't see through
the drifting snow.
Frozen, bloody carcasses scattered
across slush and ice--
nothing but carnage and then
nothing at all.

Reflections on the War I didn't know that I was Fighting

Feminazi, he asks,
"Why can't you take a joke?"
He laughs, and waits for me to
goose step salute into submission.
I can't help but wonder
if he's right.
The joke, is that women are waging a war
to be women--
Caught somewhere between the world of
paper dolls and blow up dolls.
Always looking like dolls.
Wide eyed and beautiful,
porcelain skin, smooth like silk and
small--
never taking up too much space on the shelves
of men's lives.
Collectible items that cannot be taken from the box.
But then
they collect dust. Become
bitter and brittle
spinsters. Plain women who were never play toys.
The joke is that women are items--
commodified, commercialized,
violent crimes against them justified,
"It isn't rape if you yell surprise!"
The joke is that I used to think that was funny.
Taught that the only way to get a man
was to be a lady--
sweet and poised and pose-able,
giggling at the things that make you uncomfortable.
The joke is that I have stopped giggling,
but I still hear men laughing
all around me.
The joke is that educated, empowered women
should,
according to politicians,
be on the corner or in a binder.
And I'm reminded of the bright pink box and
suffocating cellophane when I realize that
none of these places is an "acceptable" place
for a woman to be.
The joke is that no one can win because
they won't let you.
The joke is that it all boils down to nature--
versus nurture.
And we have been nurtured to hate women so much
that when I finally learn to stand
on my own,
I am compared to monsters.
A feminazi.
Calling for the genocide of jokes.