I’ll wash the sheets and make the bed
The dog with muddy paws
I’ll wash the sheets and make the bed
The daughter returning from abroad
I’ll wash the sheets and make the bed
Mine and my lover’s tryst
I’ll wash the sheets and make the bed
My parents’ next, last visit
A week from Thursday,
I’ll wash the sheets
when no one else will feel them.
I’ll wash the sheets and make the bed. Cool and crisp against the skin.
And when I’m slow, and pale, and tired, I’ll make the bed
And then I will climb in.

What did Penelope imagine
when she stared out
across the sea?
Her man fighting waves,
and storms, and beasties
between her and thee?
Did she think for a moment,
Did she consider a whim,
That whist he was away
Another woman
was sleeping with him?
Sure, she was his forever,
his harbor at home,
But while the winds took him away,
Another’s arms were entwirled,
Around his neck, and his torso,
His chest, and his thighs.
Staring, deeply,
so deeply,
into his big brown eyes.

She must’ve considered a possibility, this–
Another one receiving
his gentle sweet kiss,
That came with no promises,
and also no remorse
For it was what it was.
Nothing that mattered, of course.
Just touching and holding,
Moaning at night, (occasionally in the morning, at dawn’s early light.)
But always he’d leave, and turn his ship back toward home.
Where Penelope’d wait, never believing he’d roam.

As for the other woman, well, she’d remember his scent,
and be grateful for the time,
so sweetly they’d spent.
And she’d go back to her life.
And what would be, would still be.
She’d look herself in the mirror.
I see myself in the mirror.
The other woman is me.

If I were a songwriter, I’d sit outside and the birds would create a rhythm that the rustling trees would percuss. 

If I were a songwriter, I’d feel the sun warming the denim over my legs and think about how it must be the way a snowflake feels when it hits the warm ground, slowly spreading out across it’s girth.

If I were a songwriter, I’d noodle on the guitar and him little melodies along with the neighbor’s dog who barks in the distance.

If I were a songwriter, I’d know the sound of the color of the forsythia on a bright spring morn. 

Be a homemaker he said. I’ll buy a big house in the suburbs. I’ll work so you won’t have to. You can take care of the babies.

Create a book group, crochet, knit. It’ll be so nice. Create a space for your children and yourself. Surround yourself with nubby blankets and scented candles. Invite your friends for Christmas.

Don’t worry about ascent. No need for 401k, I’ll take care of the bills. You go to Marshalls find things that delight you. Put them on the shelves. 

30 years from now when you decide that you are more than a trinket, and your kids are grown, and your walls are beautifully painted, you’ll look around and you’ll see: the home that you’ve created was just a dream.

That space, that contained everything you loved, was never your own. Your name. Your own beautiful name, is not on even on the mortgage.

But sure as ink is black, it will be. It will be.

If 82-year-old Paul Anka can sing Imagine live from times square a few minutes before midnight, then I can imagine getting up every morning this year and fathoming doing things for myself that make me feel grateful, purposeful, and contented. Remember the times of our lives. This is it the only rodeo that we can confirm, so why not face it courageously and with good humor? Seems like a good enough plan to me. My goals for this year: 1) Accept myself 2) Love myself 3) Forgive myself 4) challenge myself 5) make space for myself. Each of these can be explained in practical terms: Smile at myself in the mirror. Floss. Show grace. Don’t call myself stupid or judge my past behaviors with my current knowledge and understanding. Take on new roles and responsibilities. Learn a new skill. (Adobe cloud I’m looking at you.) Make my home comfortable and clean. Allow time for creativity. I think if I can imagine doing all of these 2024 we’ll have proven to be a good year, well-spent. Happy New Year!

Nearly two weeks ago the anniversary of my divorce came and went and I didn’t even notice. Perhaps that was the day that his email landed in my spam folder, perhaps that came later. Doesn’t matter. I won’t reply. He wrote to tell me that he’d hit a road block in his recovery and that I could help. By voluntarily repaying the dollars he’d laid out (during our marriage) toward my massage training. He said, that acknowledging his financial support of what he seems to have been the gateway to my “acting out,” is keeping him from healing. Poor soul! He can’t recover, but he’s maintained a three-year relationship with a curvy blonde do-gooder. He can’t recover, but he’s launched his third business venture. He can’t recover, but he spends every day on the pickle ball court, and eating lunches out with fellow men of leisure. Poor baby! I am so sorry that he suffers so at the hands of my evil past. I am so sorry that he feels entitled to restitution from supporting his wife’s dream of becoming a healer. (May it be known that I never allowed him on my table. I am so proud of myself for that, for keeping my work sacred, and safe, and protected against his criticism.) Poor poor Papa, who is so frozen in the past that he cannot move ahead. And I, I do not look back. Not ever. Not even the 30th of November.

Almost Elvis

Marriage is a strange thing. Commiting yourself to one and only one other, Forsaking all others, forever until forever is no more.

And it’s meant to be perfect, fresh daisies in the springtime, raking leaves in the fall, season after glorious season

But how can we be someone’s everything, all of the time, how can we be giving and kind and supportive and sexy 

After so many summers spent dragging kids to the pool, losing pairs of goggles after goggles?

Or winter coats, on top of winter boots, on top of winter hats, and mittens covered in frost, and snot?

After a time, you look up at your beloved and you see 

He is no longer a rock star

You no longer feel right in heels

It was good for enough for awhile, now it’s only good enough for Vegas. A close facsimile to the real thing. 

If you squint you can almost see him–almost–Elvis 

looking back at you. Glancing up from the newspaper 

he reads on the toilet.

Corner of Raymond and nowhere, Newark big dog station. Haitian Creole, American jive. Dude with the Doobie spouting spot on parenting psychology. How in the duck do you expect your kid to feel loved if his father doesn’t love his mother? No matter how hard you try to keep that shit from your kid, he gonna hear it, he gonna feel it. How in the duck he gonna love himself if he ain’t raised in a house of love? Brother, preach. This, as I stand on the opposite edge of the sidewalk with my hypervigilant, beautiful daughter. The one who I tried so hard to blanket with nothing but love and security, grew up disbelievingly that what was right before her eyes was deserving of her trust. We do our best, but it is not enough. It can never be enough.

Blue Moon

Black dog

Golden Bourbon

Hollow log

Open door

Quiet room

Too much things

Gone too soon

Scary doll

On the chair

Signs of life

Everywhere

Calligraphied prints

Painted walls

Pictures, tchotchkes

All of the all

So much of you

No longer here

Before that day, I’ll take a chance

To build a bridge

Where there is none

Long washed away

When the summer’d come

No one watching

No one home

No mama listening

On the phone

Three little orphans

Looking for crumbs

Could’ve fed each other

But then we’d have none

Instead we fought

Built fortresses tall

And stood behind

Garrisoned walls

No room for love

No vulnerable hearts

Each of us stood

Prepped with darts

I’ll shoot you first

Before you see me bleed

And never will I ever

Reveal my need

For sisterly protection

Sisterly love

That’s way too scary

I am too young

Mid ’50s now

But with you,

It’s as if it’s  

1972.

I am six

And you’re much older

And yet I’m parenting

Perhaps I’m bolder?

Bold enough

To want more

Then these bits

On the floor

I want serenity

I want peace

I knew even then

It wasn’t in reach

But only if I stuck out my hand

And took not yours,

But my own.

The only one

Who’d lead me home. 

The only way I’d be okay

Was being strong 

enough to hold

My own

You offer me the top of your head to kiss, same as you always do, and I try to say no, I don’t want the top of your head. I want your cheek, your forehead, the tip of your nose. But, then, I flash back and remember that glorious and intense, sweet and concerning moment, minutes after your birth, when I kissed the crown of your head for the very first time. Breathed in the brand new, bloodied scent of you that would imprint on my heart for as long as I will live. Tonight you are leaving, again. You’re a sophomore now, so this shouldn’t sting, the sight of you pulling away in your Honda Civic, gray as the August clouds after this rain, a somber colored car, a serious color, for a vehicle filled with such light – and such love – my youngest daughter. You are nearly firmly planted outside of this nest, creating a life and a home of your own with your friends who are your family of choice. There is room for me, still. Though I know my place is not an everyday one. It is a sometimes, though, when you’re hungry, or cold, or just want a warm smile or hug. You know you can always come to me, my beautiful baby girl. The one who brings me so much joy and laughter, who understands dogs and humans and who fights for justice and won’t tolerate nonsense. Unless it’s if your own creation–sings, dances, silly words and phrases, terms of endearment, or caricatures performed out of love and keen observation. The world is your oyster. Crack it open, drink the juice, wear the pearl on a string. It’s as perfectly created and unique as you.