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. 

The pony car barrels down the street I said hey what’s going on blaring out of the stereo. It’s Saturday night and the firepit is lit and so are the neighbors.

I wasn’t feeling well tonight and Annie Rose offered to pick me up some soup. She dropped it off on her way to go grocery shopping with her father. Aka HE took her to chik filet to get me soup. And HE drove her here to give it to me. (I don’t know if he paid for it). I caught my brain getting all mushy and thinking, awww, that was a really kind gesture. I should be nicer. I should thank him…I should forgive him…I should make an effort…and then, my brain was like —– scratchhhhh needle across and LP —– wtf?!?? No! No! No!! He’s a dick! He’s a monster!! He stole your money and shamed you to your kids!!!! No, no, no, no!!! Don’t you ever forget!!! And then I ate my soup.

Headlights lead 

’round curvy

canyons’ bends

I know not to ask

where, how, or when

I search for dark skies 

and pinholes of light

a billion years old

yet shining so bright

I care not the travel 

through dust-time and distance

Learned long ago 

not to question resistance

Though gravity pulls 

we can’t keep feet grounded

when red clay and roadways 

give way to hot magma

Earth 

(you sweet mother fucker)

Spinning and spinning til nothing’s

in focus

All that we know, no longer ahead,

all that we knew

no longer behind us.

But! 

I am Quaesitor Luminis! I will find

the lights God put there to guide us

I’ll drive through the night, 

my trailer in tow

headlights and starlights 

the tools that will show

The way to the heavens where each one of us

Someday…

Someday…

Someday…

Will go. 

Semi-transparent moon in the pale blue sky the same color as the butterflies on my flare pants that flounce when I walk just the same way my heart did the first time my eyes landed on you.

As this coach car carries me on rails of steel I stare out the window and watch the trees pass by faster than the years

I never thought our forever was not gonna last and the time we parked at Logan, section U2 near the exit sign we didn’t know ours was near, too.

Or did we? That diner breakfast crying over eggs and coffee finally getting honest

But it would take so much more, wouldn’t it? If have to go down into a black hole, afterall I was used to my screams being swallowed whole and no one, you especially, not listening to me

This train, this train, taking me back to who I always was and to where I wanted to be. At least now in the care of someone who wants to love me right. I’m in the arms of me.

When I was little, my dad seemed so large. His voice was booming and his temper was hot. And though he stood 5’8″ – at most – he loomed over us. A force, like the teacher at the head of the classroom that he’d been for many years prior to my birth, or the lawyer advocating for workers rights as he was then. 

In the early 70s, he grew a beard. It came in more red than brown, a bit like Chris Kringle, and I thought it meant maybe we were less Jewish now? Then came the lamb chop side burns and the tan leisure suits during his dating phase which coincided with Glen Campbell’s “Rhinestone Cowboy.” My dad was a force then. And he still is, but now, he’s shrinking. Right before our eyes, the man who talks over everyone, still, weighs in at 140 lbs. 

I hear him this morning, through the thin walls of my little townhouse, sharing the headlines of the day with his wife. He’s a historian and a news junkie. He’s always been a good talker and a shite listener. Now, at 91, his hearing is so compromised that he doesn’t have to pretend to hear you. He just talks at you. Like he’s always done. Last night coming home from the airport, he gave me kudos for having a “neat” house, and he was happy with the chicken, butternut squash broccoli I’d had the foresight to roast ahead of time. He’s a hard person to please, but for the moment, it seems I’ve done alright. I know because in his own way, he told so.

There’ll be a load of compromisin’

On the road to my horizon

But I’m gonna be where the lights are shinin’ on me…

I don’t think I’ll ever
forget that windy afternoon in
spring before he went
away he told me to come
over he said come
on inside and after
he kissed me, he poured
ounces of gold into my hands and silver, too, and he surprised
me by asking about my unborn future
grandchildren, their financial
well-being. I will take that concern as love even though we only exist between the sheets and her daily phone call.