If I hacked my braids off
would my inhibitions go with it?

I’ve discovered my strange passion for whack a mole
And mind you, I’m the mole
Whacked away
To the point that I’m buried deep deep under
And the saddest part is?
I’m also the one doing the whacking

When I start to write a poem my initial reaction is to
Purse my lips, brush aside my hair, twiddle my toes, try to feel
Where I am write down, who
I am write now, equal measures physically and mentally
In the case that the tap is on, my thoughts flowing in a steady stream I greedily clutch at them
Some are caught successfully in a bucket but more than I realize slip through
The cracks in my fingers

The times when the **** seems firmly shut I’m left
Waiting,
For an opening in my mind that seems to have dried up,
Not a drop left

So, I start digging. A scratch, two, eventually like a dog frantic for his treasure
I usually hit something
But as to whether it’s my prize is another matter
I’m more often hit with a rock
A very hard unmoving rock

Although, sometimes the rock is gold
Or pyrite and I can pass it off as such
It still glitters and shines
And that’s fine, isn’t it?

Truly, I feel most peaceful when
My face is attempting to go
Through the floor, smushed up
Against the little fibers containing treasures from last week’s late night snack
Before being swept away by the tornado known as the vacuum cleaner

I somehow really do like it
My stomach being repelled with every breath gives me the mistaken belief
That there’s no need for my exercise routine or that
I won’t be regretting the chocolate hazelnut churros and chocolate ice cream I indulged in
“Just this once”
My new favorite three words

But wait,
It’s not new
Simple the same old story repeating itself again
And again
        And again

“Sweetie”
The nickname given to my mother from her mother in law
Truly a befitting one
My mother, the woman who tries so hard, intelligent, yet still, occasionally a child
A strong, strong woman
Trying to accommodate everyone

Thankfully our move has provided some much needed personal space
Otherwise, she’d already have her hair out by now

Her parents with their obsessive religious rituals, must make sweets tomorrow even when they get wasted
Must prepare...
Must...

Her mother in law, dripping waves of anxiety like a leaky faucet
Soon to become a waterfall

Her husband,
Weak as a newborn chick
From surgery and culminating stubbornness about to explode

Her 10 year old truant son,
Not only does he need to be shuttled places
Also insists upon watching YouTube at every available hour

And me,
Her daughter
At least I can drive and stay out of her way
At least I can provide hugs, be a listening ear, and do my best to be considerate
But my rebellious nature
Peeks through as well

...


Wow
She’s amazing,
my mother is.

As I look at my grandma
I see a bird in a cage
“I was only one of the two in the whole university to receive...”
“...in chemistry”
“...PhD...”
“...stopped...”
“...financial...”
“...fami­ly...child...marriage...how could I...”
Once with wings of gleaming alabaster
Now a wrinkled dull grey
A pitiful little thing
A whole head shorter than my 5’1.5”
As if,
A gust of wind
Could blow her away
Yet,
Large soulful eyes
And a steady stream, exiting her lips
Chastising, complaining, advising
Truly a fire bird
A lot to be learned
Despite being entwined, constantly
In a pool of anxiety she remains
A blazing Phoenix
And even if it’s too late for her to rise from the ashes
There’s still me

Although I won’t live her life Or even
The one she should have had
I’ll live mine

What tends to happen with many a poem is
You hop in, then land up somewhere else
Like driving to Texas and landing in Maine Or
Going to India but ending up in the Caribbean

And it’s not nonsensical
Certainly not,
The poet is very much as sane as
You or me

But rather,
That walking or jogging at a
Steady pace as you’d do in a novel
Or essay or racing through a
Movie The poet instead likes to hop and skip and
Jump and race and dance and
Twirl and roll and fly

So much so that those whose minds would rather
Stick to a steady pace
Are absolutely ******* in knots

In this case,
One of two things may occur
Some may scratch their heads and give up, deeming poetry “not their thing”
While others,
May read the poem in bits,
At their own pace,
Maintaining a slow and steady while acknowledging and appreciating and analyzing the hops and leaps and twirls-
They are like detectives,
Tracing the possible routes through which the poet may have traversed

Coming up with theories,
And although a theory may or may not be accurate...


We don’t know how humans evolved
But we appreciate it all the same