My guts like quicksand
Sucking and barely bubbling
Pulling me into myself
My skin so sensitive
The breeze from the fan
Scatters me
Impossible to gather
I regret
My wasted worry
Even mercurial moments
When I did not let myself be

The book in my hands
Slowly vanishing
Spring Sunset
Sunset
Early spring or late fall
The light seems to vanish more slowly than the heat
The sun is still high enough to warm my back
I find a chair, prop my feet, open my book
I have over an hour to read before I must be mommy again
I am excited to read their poetry
But it is required, so there is a tinge of resistance
Still the sun inspires me to settle and turn the pages
Lions and leaves, haiku and whoring
Highlighter and pen and folding
A satisfying trail of my comfortable devouring
Suddenly I am aware I am in shadow
The sun has dropped below the tree line
My pleasure sinks along with it, my neck is cold
Vanishing
I close the book and go inside
Artificial heat is hardly a consolation
I had less time than I expected
The book in my hands
Slowly vanishing
Spring Sunset
Sometimes my extremities feel like they are vanishing
Have vanished
It’s never slowly, but in so fast a moment
That I didn’t even notice they were lopped off
The thing that occupied my extremities
A book, a steering wheel
Left to fend for themselves
Until I grow new appendages out of the nubs and continue as normal
You might think it would be painful
To lose and regrow limbs
But there are no ghostly pains or stings of exposed and writhing tissue
The numb gives way to tingling, then sensation, then experience
The book requires slight pressure to keep its cover splayed
It is new and has not been read enough to be passive
The steering wheel cool and smooth and also resists just a bit
My limbs have returned
The sunset makes reading and driving more difficult
I have been really struggling with the meme that is going around on social media that directly links our perceived current “Godlessness” with the horrific shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School. I have taken a few days to process why it bother me, and to figure out how to express it.
I understand the need to make sense of this tragedy, I am still struggling to do so myself. I understand the need to look to religion/faith for answers, I find myself also wanting to know there is some grand order in the midst of human chaos.
But, there is an unspoken assertion that is being delivered along with the “Godless Nation” meme that seems to be everywhere right now. And that assertion is what keeps me uncomfortable and struggling and saddened and disturbed.
The assumption is that in fact there was a time when we were less Godless and because of that, less violent atrocities were being directed at innocents. This has actually never been the case. The romanticized notion of religion and its role in our country/world is at best misleading and at worst disrespectful and dishonorable. Why? Because with that meme, we allow ourselves to effectively forget all of the human beings that suffered and died during a time we look back at as “more religious.” Slavery, the Holocaust, Japanese internment camps, mob lynchings, church bombings, ignored pedophilia and child rape, etc…. All of these things happened at a time when prayer WAS allowed in school, when church attendance was regular, and when we would have called ourselves a God-Fearing country. In fact, many of these atrocities were actually perpetrated by those who would have proudly told you that they attended church regularly.
Every year I light a candle to remember the 6 million Jews (men, women, and children) who were slaughtered. But I also light that candle to remember countless other human beings of different races, nationalities, and religions who also lost their lives due to hatred, ignorance, intolerance, and arrogance. I take the call to “never forget” very seriously as a human being and as a mother.
I, personally, will not engage in a popular, perhaps comforting, meme that subversively allows us to forget our violent past, and its victims. I will not forget these Newtown children and their teachers. I will not forget the families in Connecticut that have been devastated. But I will also not forget that it has happened before many times. I will not forget the history of those other shattered lives and families either. I will bear witness to our history of killing and fear, even while we look back dreamily and called ourselves “religious.”
AND I will not forget that the answer lies in the honest remembering, the teaching our children about accurate history, and in the one-on-one taking care of each other regardless of our faith, or lack there of, publicly displayed, or privately practiced.
WE make the decisions that make our world safer, or more dangerous, for each other. This is the decision I make….I will not look to our past with rose-colored glasses. I will weep, and feel it, and I will never forget.
My childhood memories seep into my senses
The smell of dust and wood and age
Harsh pews and dangling feet and digging
Through my grandmother’s purse for mints
Actually for anything that could serve as playful distraction
From the assurance that I am surely doomed to Hell
Paper clips, tissues, empty gum wrappers
We fashion into medieval goblets
Giggling, once too often, and I am outside picking my own switch
I search for a savior through the hazy wavy window pane
Only a mass of distorted shapes like spirits, oblivious and singing
The preacher was right
At once after my stinging selection
I recall a dream and I am back inside
Sitting in the back of that same sacred space
Dangling my feet and watching them sway
I look up and he is sitting in the front pew
Purple paisley bandana across his sweaty forehead
Afro far from sculpted, well-worn vest and yellowed billowed shirt
I see his profile, I know him
I have heard his electrifying anthem
I liked it
THEY did not
He turns his body toward me, cranes his neck
Lifts his long arm and rests that hand on the pew
We see each other
Expression soft, a smile for comfort
He winks
And we know there is no Hell
He returns his gaze forward and we listen contented
Enjoying the choir’s jubilant hymn
Tonight as I walked toward the certainty of expression unattainable
I found myself wanting to crawl into your socket-like craters
Away from the warmth and spotlight of that saccharin dying star
Away from the illusion of a smooth surface and a friendly face
To curl up in the bottom of your inhospitable shadows
And use your honest rocks as pillows
We cannot see from here what we have left upon you
Hardly scars compared to those empty orbits that never blink
But boot prints and claiming stakes and conquering dreams
Left our mark just the same and you cannot rid yourself of them
Glory gone, you continue pulling blood and words and water
And me, but I go willingly
I adore being a voyeur,
Walking the streets with a friend,
Discussing stomach pains and poetry.
This hostile hugging city,
And its aching architecture,
Give me license I do not usually allow.
Curtains chase an evening breeze,
Disrobing your smooth and sanguine walls,
Evoking in me a moment of wonder and romance.
I have not felt like this in months,
Free and peeping, willing to fall into belief,
Everything around me has ceased to be.
Except for your second floor beckoning,
Orderly rows of books and crisply centered chandelier,
Giving off a light and life that I cannot stop myself from creating.
I had forgotten what this was like.
The cursor blinks
She disappears through a door
A wisp of smoke curls on the breeze
A Cloud passes casting a dull shadow
Grey descends and a groundhog scuttles
An art installation loses its shine
The bait of the world wiggles and squirms
Pastures, rocks, and bleating lambs call out
A Coffee pot grinds and gurgles
An elephant loses its decoration one bead at a time
Cartoon Jesus clings loosely to a Sunday School felt board
A fish tank casts a bubbly pink hue
A spider’s belly grows full
Dread, the only formulation
The cursor continues to blink
I let him in,
Only because she came along.
I allow him as close to me as I can bear, a corner stare,
Knowing he brings a chilly obligation if I would truly have her heat.
He doesn’t dance, he waits,
As if there is time to afford me this.
She entices me to join her while I am still able,
To allow my rhythm to mingle with her heady hazy spin.
He will have his way with me one day,
There is no stopping his slow, steady approach.
But she keeps me moving about this room feigning immortality,
As if his ghastly grasp does not already hover over my left shoulder.
I had to let him in,
So at the end,
I can say,
I let her have her way.