the things she carried

at 34 weeks pregnant
she realized she was carrying more than a five pound fetus
one that would easily live outside the womb
(in america)

she knew she was carrying a boy:
the blood test had said XY
and the pictures had shown testicles clearly
and she was carrying high
(if wives' tales are to be believed)

and because it was she carrying the boy
she carried a white boy
who would be born into privilege
(not every privilege, but enough)
because he was being born in america
to parents who would love him
to parents who had been to college
to parents who work hard

she carried Board meeting agendas
fundraising events
class passes to three studios
two swollen feet (one markedly moreso)
a parental leave/business continuity plan
what felt like a sobriety coin
water, vegan snack bars, Poise pantyliners
insomnia

at 34 weeks pregnant
her husband got sick with the flu
so she carried her husband's daughter to a bed
she had made on the floor of a friend's house
(a quarantined inn)
she woke the child up to give her medicine
she took her own medicine
she carried herself to the bathtub
and less gracefully out of the bathtub

she carried groceries and more medicine
and clothes and toys and soup

she carried a phone that alerted her a faraway friend--
one she had chosen as her son's godmother--
had bought her
a spa gift certificate

she carried messages of
where are you registered
who is your doctor
when are you due
do you know the sex
you want to do it naturally?

a five pound fetus
a nation
bloodwork
pictures
a Masters degree
a workload
volunteer obligations
stepmotherhood
a yoga mat

(a lot of extra weight)

she was carrying a firstborn son
dreams and expectations
hopes and wishes and fervent prayers
(anywhere you go, a mother has already prayed for that journey)

she carried the future
(an heir, the class clown, someone's groom)
tried to focus on the present
(plenty of rest and fluids, all the nutrients, keep blood pressure low)
tried to let go of the past
(doubts, debts, unkindness)

and focused on the most important thing she'll ever carry, ever give, ever bestow or be bestowed:
love.

excuses

She loved him.
She knew that it would be work.
So she glorified.

He made comments about her cooking
her eating
her makeup
her clothes
why she didn't have better hair
where that great ass he fell in love with had gone.

She questioned the late nights
the colleagues
the prescription medications
the alcohol
the overnight trips.
She was met with swift resistance
denial
and being told she was ridiculous.

He joked about whom she texted and called
Then he looked through her phone
to read her emails
and her text messages.
And then he forbid communication
with certain people.
And then he checked her phone every night
to ensure compliance.

She stopped seeing her friends.
She stopped sharing stories with
her neighbors
her best friend
her mom.

She told them to call her
at work
only.

He acted like her orgasm wasn't important,
and then he said it wasn't
and then he stopped pretending he needed consent.

She told herself that it wasn't abuse until he hurt her
until he hit her
until he left a mark
until he put her in the hospital
until he put her in a coma
until he put her in a grave.

He apologized the first time
"baby, I'm so sorry"
the second time
"it won't happen again"
the thirteenth time
"I was just so _____"

Her rock bottom was
the morning her makeup couldn't conceal
the day the bank said their account was empty
the afternoon he threatened to kill himself
the night he almost killed her

when she learned she was pregnant
when she missed her sister's wedding
when she had her jaw wired back into place

She got a lawyer
and she got her life back.

Because, yes, love is work
but it shouldn't damage.

nice

In my final semester of college, I took a poetry class with Maya Angelou. She was generous with her time and talent, and she was a joy to be around.

We studied this poem, among many others, and I find myself returning to it these days, nearly 13 years later.

The Friend
Marge Piercy

We sat across the table.

he said, cut off your hands.

they are always poking at things.

they might touch me.

I said yes.

Food grew cold on the table.

he said, burn your body.

it is not clean and smells like sex.

it rubs my mind sore.

I said yes.

I love you, I said.

That’s very nice, he said

I like to be loved,

that makes me happy.

Have you cut off your hands yet?

disconsolate

This is one of my favorite poems. I read it every time I worry I've become the volatile couple... Which is pretty easy to do during the holidays, as I balance my desires/needs with his and hers and ours and theirs.

*

When a Woman Loves a Man

David Lehman, 1948

When she says margarita she means daiquiri.
When she says quixotic she means mercurial.
And when she says, "I'll never speak to you again," she means, "Put your arms around me from behind
as I stand disconsolate at the window."

He's supposed to know that.

When a man loves a woman he is in New York and she is in Virginia
or he is in Boston, writing, and she is in New York, reading,
or she is wearing a sweater and sunglasses in Balboa Park
and he
is raking leaves in Ithaca
or he is driving to East Hampton and she is standing
disconsolate
at the window overlooking the bay
where a regatta of many-colored sails is going on
while he is stuck in traffic on the Long Island Expressway.

When a woman loves a man it is one ten in the morning
she is asleep
he is watching the ball scores and eating pretzels
drinking lemonade
and two hours later he wakes up and staggers into bed where she remains asleep and very warm.

When she says tomorrow she means in three or four weeks.
When she says, "We're talking about me now,"
he stops talking. Her best friend comes over and says,
"Did somebody die?"

When a woman loves a man, they have gone
to swim naked in the stream
on a glorious July day
with the sound of the waterfall like a chuckle
of water rushing over smooth rocks,
and there is nothing alien in the universe.

Ripe apples fall about them.
What else can they do but eat?

When he says, "Ours is a transitional era,"
"that's very original of you," she replies,
dry as the martini he is sipping.

They fight all the time
It's fun
What do I owe you?
Let's start with an apology
Ok, I'm sorry, you dickhead.
A sign is held up saying "Laughter."
It's a silent picture.
"I've been fucked without a kiss," she says,
"and you can quote me on that,"
which sounds great in an English accent.

One year they broke up seven times and threatened to do it another nine times.

When a woman loves a man, she wants him to meet her at the airport in a foreign country with a jeep.
When a man loves a woman he's there. He doesn't complain
that
she's two hours late
and there's nothing in the refrigerator.

When a woman loves a man, she wants to stay awake.
She's like a child crying
at nightfall because she didn't want the day to end.

When a man loves a woman, he watches her sleep, thinking:
as midnight to the moon is sleep to the beloved.
A thousand fireflies wink at him.
The frogs sound like the string section
of the orchestra warming up.
The stars dangle down like earrings the shape of grapes.

hCG

A friend of mine found out that she was pregnant and described that first trimester as carrying around "a life-sized secret."

two pink lines equals
all of the emotions, plus
a life-sized secret.

fluctuations

the night settles around me
not so much quiet
but stillness

I fight the urge to make lists
to plan
to research
to worry
to fight

I try to find peace
in this moment:
the calm before
the next storm.

imprint

If I ever get a tattoo, it will be a small fleur de lis on the inside of my wrist. dba marked me as their own one night, and I knew I belonged to New Orleans.

*

  fleur de lis

walked in

last night

for $5

I received

a stamp

she took my wrist

turned my veins toward

the stars

and presented rubber

to my skin

leaving an imprint

of a fleur de lis

along the most visible

and fragile

feature of my

blood supply

later, that wrist would run along your scalp,

grasp onto your neck

and, ultimately,

push you away

today we kissed for the last time

and it was a sad goodbye

because, just as this city has stamped itself onto my skin

so have you

given me reason to believe

in rebirth

possibility

so have you

given me a very vulnerable sense of fragility

like those veins that could be sliced

instead of stamped

I'm scared of either possibility

and I know you'd save me

and don't intend to harm me

but

the most difficult part of any

grieving process

is mourning the loss

of what might have been

Dec 17 2010

in two

the trees

fade into

the sky

of midnight

Im miles

away from

your bed

but I

drive on

thinking about

your lips

with long

straight roads

your hands

with each

right curve

your soul

with ev'ry

bright headlight

we become

uncoupled with

ev'ry mile

of my

journey home.

 

nov 14, 2002

brick

In 1983, my parents moved to Wilmington, NC. The family next door had a girl a year younger than me and then got pregnant with a boy who would be two years younger than my brother. The four of us were practically inseparable.

Then in 1986, a family moved across the street with a girl my age and a boy my brother's age. So I ended up with two "sisters." Our parents coordinated Santa: one year we all got dollhouses (which involved at least one bottle of bourbon and a Masters in engineering to construct, according to our fathers); the next year, all of us got bikes, which we would learn to ride in our circular driveway.

I truly know how lucky I am that my parents still live in the same house that I grew up in and that they are still married to each other and that they still like each other and that they are both still healthy. I know that one day they will downsize and move away, and the number that has been in my cell phone as "home" since the day I got a cell phone 15 years ago will go to someone who has not had AT&T long distance for more than three decades.

My parents never once switched during MCI vs. Sprint (the pin drop years). I wonder if, in their future locale, my parents will even be able to sign up for a phone plan that doesn't have call waiting. (Yes. You still get a busy signal if they are busy. As God intended.)

I guess what I'm saying is that I grew up in a place where not much changed. My childhood centered on reading/writing, playing sports, and exploring the world of our yards with my brother and our friends.

Of all these adopted siblings, I was the oldest (by six weeks), which I'm sure I took to mean that I was the one in charge, and I'm sure no one else was really allowed to question that. I also know that I developed a maternal mentality. None of these qualities have particularly waned through the years. What was "bossy" as a girl became "bitchy" as a teenager and became "leadership" as an adult.

That's how I tell it, anyway.

But my maternal instinct remains. I still feel responsible for other people. I want to "fix" them, like I used to "fix" skinned knees or vases broken from rambunctious behavior or a mistake. After years of therapy, I try really, really hard to not credit/blame others for my feelings or be credited/blamed for theirs.

But some people *do* make me happy. One "sister" came over for dinner tonight. We ended up going to different high schools and drifted apart, but she found me on Facebook a few years ago. So tonight she left her husband in charge of her two boys and showed up ready to eat in a home where she had once enjoyed many years of Nintendo. Daddy poured champagne and chopped up meats that had spent most of the day smoking. Three generations ate together. After dinner, we snuck away and spent hours talking about how parenthood has affected us, how our careers have come to be, how our relationships with our parents have evolved, why God matters, how difficult it is to come home again.

Her parents moved from the neighborhood when we were in college, and then they divorced, so returning to our neighborhood was bittersweet at best for her. As she said goodbye, we stood in my parents' (no longer circular) driveway and stared at her old house, pointing out rooms that had been "ours" and wondering where the new owner(s) sleep or watch TV or eat or cry.

It's like that Miranda Lambert song, The House that Built Me. (Go ahead: judge me for liking terrible country music.) And while I can't fix brokenness, I can start healing.

The house that built me
built me full of love and strength
gave me the ability to observe
gave me insight
gave me a sense of values, inquiry, stability
taught me how to treat others.

greens

Bacon grease splatters
unnoticed across bare skin:
Trial by fire.

(last line is 5 syllables in the South)

11/12/13, New Orleans

Turned on the furnace
Smelled last summer burn into
His house, our bodies.

steam

Sipping hot green tea,
I wish I knew how she is.
Cool breeze comes. Inhale.

September

Threat of street flooding
New Orleans Saturday morn
Hauntingly quiet

teche

sipping coffee on someone else's front porch

daydreaming of
major and minor
shifts and twists
my life would need to take
to buy the antebellum home
for sale (for months)
then use its six bedrooms
six bathrooms
as a bed and breakfast.

daydreaming of
all the wedding receptions the home has hosted
and could host
the family reunions it could house
the refuge it could offer
to the bereaved

daydreaming of
what wines to serve at cocktail hour
who I'd hire to cook (or would I?)
and to clean (I would not)
what room rates would be
how expensive it would be to furnish

daydreaming of
my $88 per square foot
cypress and crystal home
built two centuries, a civil war, two world wars, and the advent of electricity ago
with the sweet money of sugarcane

with the hope that all who made the pilgrimage
(especially me)
could find solace and comfort and salve
in freshwater
in major and minor
shifts and twists
without current or tides

outdoorsy

In my continued
(annual)
effort to boycott New Orleans
during the month of August

SO. MUCH. HOT.

I decided that it might be fun to go camping.

Not the kind with a tent or hookups:
the kind with an air-conditioned cabin
and decently appointed kitchen
and maybe a lake breeze
to minimize mosquitoes
and to maximize comfort.

Then I realized
that a room in a charming bed and breakfast
(you know, where breakfast will be provided for me)
was less expensive.

refuge

Today, I cleaned off the top of my chest of drawers.

To most of you, this is probably a matter of putting pairs of earrings/cufflinks back into their compartments or putting a hat back on a shelf. Where things belong.

My best guess is that the top of my chest of drawers has not been cleaned since the summer of 2011, and I only know that date because that is when the mail towards the bottom of the pile was postmarked.

It does not belong here. It belongs in my file folders or in my recycling bin, circa 2011.

It's a collection of bills (long since paid), financial statements (unopened), magazines (now in a pile to be donated to a school for their arts program)... and one thousand other things. Scraps of paper, letters, picture frames with(out) pictures, nail polish, 3 pairs (!) of earphones, one (1) AA battery, the black and gold feather boa wig I'll need for football season, business cards from people I've forgotten... all with clean, folded laundry from months ago (anyone's guess) on top and some really cheap (but sentimental) earrings I was certain I'd lost at the bottom.

The favorite things I found:

• a thank you note from Anne Berry for hosting our annual orphan Thanksgiving dinner, where she thanked me "for making New Orleans feel like home"
• a picture from my senior year of college, snogging my gay best guy friend, due to the effects of (a lot of) fermented beverage
• the invitation to my and Brooke's one-year anniversary party: Champagne at Sunset
• pictures of me and my college roommate, who is now expecting a son, at parties or in our jammies in our dorm room
• pictures of me and my best guy friend from high school, with whom I traveled a great deal in the 5ish years after high school, and who is now expecting twins :)
• books I meant to give as presents or to read or to just have sitting out to look fancy
• a note from one of my dearest friends: "Thank you so much for dropping everything and coming down to Miami for my mother's funeral."
• love notes from my beau, when we were beginning
• a haiku a lobbyist wrote me when I was working in the Texas legislature, on one of our designated "haiku Thursdays"

All of these are messages that I belong
that I have the exact love I want
that my friends have added richly and deeply to
my definitions of kindness, grace, beauty

I belong to this gratitude
and to these memories
and, for now, to a fresh clean surface

where I will lay new words
frame new pictures
place old earrings and bobby pins

and find renewed pieces of myself and others
to belong to.

prejudice

There's enough ugly
in the world. I do not need
to be friends with it.

2005

The History of Love is one of my favorite books. The author wrote it concurrently to her husband writing Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, and if you read them back-to-back, your life will change.

I mean, your life will change by reading either, but the both of them together--in either order--will haunt you.

You're welcome in advance.

*

This boy I like asked me last month if he could take me somewhere all I needed was a passport and bikini bottoms. I accepted. Next week, we travel to St. Martin.

Tonight, he announced that his beach read is The History of Love. We've never discussed it. He explained to me, not knowing anything about my history with it (one of the only books I have read thrice): "Yeah, so. I read the reviews, and everyone said that it was this beautifully haunting and intricately woven story with complicated timelines..."

I said, "I know."

He said, "Wait. Have you read it?"

According to interviews, Jonathan Safron Foer and Nicole Krauss were not familiar with the parallels in their stories or storytellings. I don't really care if that's true. They both wrote masterful, honest depictions of super difficult topics.

*

History of love:
spaces delineated,
misunderstood, blurred.

*

"Once upon a time, there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend  his whole life answering." --Nicole Krauss

May we all be so blessed.

catharsis

My best guy friend from high school bought me Frances Driscoll's The Rape Poems in college. Driscoll journaled her way into healing, and I think Bryan had the same hopes for me, too.

In the thirteen and a half years of therapy and yoga sessions since then, I am often asked to describe or to go to my safe place. Sometimes one comes easily: a hot tub under a black sky of diamond-like stars, a hammock strung between trees on a beach, Saturday morning cuddles while sunlight streams over crisp linen.

But, always, I think of this poem (Driscoll's) first.

*

Market Research

My thermal carafe coffeemaker comes

with a 16 page instructional manual and a survey.

Do you or anyone in your household

own or plan to purchase:

a cordless handheld vacuum, a smoke alarm, a rechargeable light.

To help us understand our customers' lifestyles

please indicate the interests and activities

in which you or your partner enjoy participating

on a regular basis:

vegetable gardening, fashion clothing, casino gambling, group therapy.

Please check all that apply to your household:

support health charities, purchase items through the mail, train dogs.

My answers will be used anonymously in market research.

My answers will allow me to receive mailings and special offers

that relate directly to my specific interests.

The survey doesn't ask:

Do you have difficulty retaining domestic help.

Do you believe the following are your fault:

your son’s math grades, the dog’s skin condition, failure of the ERA.

Do you open your windows.

When someone knocks, do you open your door.

The survey doesn't ask:

Do you ever anywhere anytime believe yourself safe.

The survey doesn't ask:

Are you in a woman in America.

*

We all have trigger points:

anniversaries pass

her scent wafts by

a noise startles us

nightmares awake

I sometimes wonder

if I will ever again feel safe

if love's comforting arms will ever stop feeling like they are about to collapse

if unconditional love exists

if any of us ever really heal from 

the worst moments of our lives

the worst people we ever were

the worst memories we have

and I have to believe so

because I have to believe in forgiveness.

chardonnay

It's summertime, which means white or pink wine season for me.

And people around me these past few days have been drinking chardonnay.

*

     chardonnay

"do you prefer red or white?"

he asked politely

genuinely inquisitive

"either, as long as its light"

was my honest response

the waiter brought

an unfamiliar bottle

to our table

and as I swallowed

the thick, buttery tones

with hints of grapefruit

I guessed he knew his wines

about as well as he would know

my bed.

5 June 2003