The Light Within

4/9/13

Lansing, MI

I pledge allegiance to myself

And my inherent worth, no proof required.

I don’t need the approval of a culture

That tells me I’m not thin enough unless I’ve got an eating disorder.

I refuse to compete with other women

About things I own, what I drive and whom I’m dating.

My riches are in the love and support I share with my friends,

The best proof of God in this world if you ask me.

I don’t have to give in to the impossible demand

To always be sexy in the eyes of others

But not enjoy myself too much.

I don’t even have to have sex

If I don’t want to. And I don’t have to feel guilty for that.

I don’t believe that I’m ugly

Simply because I’m bombarded daily with images of airbrushed women

In order to generate revenue for the beauty product industry.

I’m not letting that hustle dictate my self worth,

When I know I am my most radiant when I’m at peace with myself.

I’m a woman living in America today,

And I don’t have to give up my values, my integrity, nor even my anger-

Just because a man I love doesn’t agree with me.

I’m not a prisoner to pleasing others or their preferred image of me anymore.

I pledge allegiance to myself

And my inherent worth, no proof required-

And I look at last to the light within.

Gratitude

Something my parents
Have shown me
In their absence.

As I sift through my memory
For their many actions,
Still misunderstood they are the spaces
Among sand grains.

The Art of Carrying

When the house burned down
My grandfather ran to the neighbors’
And leaned on their front door
Put out his arms and looked down
The grey concrete firm beneath
The soles of his feet.

When his mother overseas had died,
My father went outside
Put out his arms
And leaned on the balcony;
The iron banister gripping heavy thoughts.

Tonight, at the library circulation desk
I think of how badly I want
To be held again
By a mother, a father –
And my hands pull out and I lean.

How

How did I kneel down to this,
Which just bears the name of “living,”
But has no heart involved?

It has become the life of the lolling eyes
Which follow dumbly the movement
Of alternating colors, nothing else.

I have not caressed myself for a long time
With the gentle hand that I once knew.
Now there is only the gnarled fist,
The grasping wrist of labor and loss
That clenched me and drinks,
Drinks of my blood, slowly.

How have I so forgotten my own self,
And not admitted of this person
Who tugs, tugs at my sleeve?

How have I left this pile of shattered glass
Now on the floor of my kitchen for years, years,
Without picking up the broom?

I once believed in myself
In my strength and beauty
When I was not yet an urban woman,
But a girl of leaves and meadows.

Now a heavy darkness has come over these eyes,
Which once shined with a ferocity so bright.

Today I wait,
Like an old cat howling in the rain
For someone to open the door.
I want to find a way back inside.

And I ask how.

Paralysis

The gymnast with the red leotard runs freely
Like blood seeping, the yawn of life, she spreads
Out onto the floor into splits
That would hurt (would they?)

My legs do not
Comprehend the limber, dancing swinging limbs,
Awake at last, from this punishment.
This “impairment” I must not forget (how could I forget?)
My eyes loll over your leanings, nimble blood drop;

The strides attained by ferocious toes on tips,
The arms gulling gracefully over the elbows
And the quiver of that elastic band thigh
Without which the kick-leap would only be a distant possibility.

I have a longing to move as you do.
I stare down at these numb things
That only pardon, make rain checks, stir not.
I can it out the window and drivel in my own drool
Fantastic trick you’ll see me do someday.
Can the imagination make you fly?
I have often wondered why I am perched here, on this branch
From which I cannot embark
But only peek out for adventure,
Squint out at the unknown.

My legs
Have an ache to feel what they haven’t walked on yet.
This part of them does grow.
But there is no hurry here no fixed place
To return to for cover I have floundered here a long time
And it’s time to get on.
My hands clap
Loudly for the drop of red. She is my hero.

* * *

She’s wheelchair-ridden and watches me
Run across the dance floor,
Like she hasn’t done it before, ever.
Like she wants to, real bad.
Her hands twiddle, fidget on the lap
Of her white wool sweater like
Two nervous birds flying fast over a cloud.

I look away and straddle the beam.
I may be a gymnast but inside this body
It is graceless resentment kicking
For a way out, starved hard by perfection.

I’m walking on these fixed beams, no others
To turn toes on or slope over backbone’s tail.
Drive instead these stiff knees home
And park the hallowed hips of fatigue
In their couch garage, sounds fine.
I’ll give them a shake but nothing’ll fall out-
They’re dusty. Dead inwards, dirty and swollen.

I am a mere marionette, trained well
And overdone by these trappings of beauty;
Slick muscles bind my bile of green envy for the dead
That rest in graveyards, their souls stirred by sun and moon,
Universe their entire roaming ground.

Her silver wheelchair glare shines
In my eyes and I look at
Her shriveled legs, noticing only their repose;
They move for no one, not even
For medals.
My tired eyes close.

Ms. Magpie

For Lada~

After I lost you
I made a promise

Not to pocket anything precious or golden,
Or cherish it in my nest of treasures;
Because I’d lose it to the gutters
Or have it stolen by some wicked child sooner or later –
And so I decided I wouldn’t spread my wings
Or leave this tree I sit on,
Because I’d lose far more than I’d ever find again.
On my fixed branch, declining, I cannot tell my legs from the bark anymore.

* * *

Last night
A stern, unruly wind
Blew me onto the rickety roof of Eliot Hall
Where I heard again your memorable, loving words:

Give ‘em hell!

And then the rain fell on me like
Thousands of small diamonds.
Each drop, rolling off my black feathers
Was a part of you.

The wind was your hand,
Moving with me again as I flew
Off that roof
As fast as my wings would allow.

And so I fly
And fall,
Fly and fall again,
Your zephyrs holding me
With their beautiful, bold uncertainty.