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.

Contrary to popular belief, my use of the word “no” is not a blow to your ego. Nor is it a term to be taken lightly. There is power in the word “no,” and it has been denied to me for centuries. “No” feels dangerous on my tongue. I think it should be followed by something— “thank you,” “I’m sorry.” No. “No” is sacred. It is mine to claim. I bring it to my breast in the tenderest of embraces, and this does not make me bitter. I am not cruel, hurtful, cynical. I am not a bitch for denying you something that is not yours. “No” is meant to protect me, my space, my soul—“no” is baptismal. To be annointed with the word “no” is to understand the all-encompassing love of an indifferent God. “No” is not a woman’s word, but it will be mine. I will be its disciple; I will use it until my last breath.
And, someday, I will understand the warmth and power of a real, enthusiastic “yes.”

 

I remember wishing you would leave, 

if only for a little while— 

wishing for a lag in the yelling, 

the slamming of cabinets
and 
doors, 

the distinctive sound of a beer can being opened. 

Crack. Fizz. Silence.


 I remember the deafening silence

as I sat staring at your empty seat, 

wondering when you would return.


I remember knowing change was imminent 

when, astounded by the nurse’s bedside manner, 

she told me you were not alright and 

speeding was not encouraged but it was advised.


 I remember wishing you could come back,
 
if only for a little while.

For years I’d wished for things to change,
 
and for years I’ve wished I would have understood

that wishing can make you bitter,
 
silent— 

lost in remembering

hallmark holidays.

it was like any other holiday— 

a community affair. 

each child dropped a

little pre-made card onto the desk

of a peer. 

trite sayings they would later

take for granted—

be mine,

i love you. 

she hardly heard the excited 

buzz as she 

solemnly moved about the room—

wondering all the while

why mommy refused to be 

daddy’s valentine, and what

he would be like after

drinking the whole bottle 

of wine.