Being alone is more
Than just staying at home
You could be walking down the street
Like you're trapped inside a dome

Everyone around you just stares
"Hello, doesn't anyone notice he's there?"
You could talk in the loudest voice
But nobody will look or seem to care

And most of the time
They'll think its a crime
To walk and walk...
But never talk

And at night when you're laying in bed
You'll remember it all and it plays in your head
Over and over it plays like a tape
Then your eyes close over like a dark drape

She places her book, marked with
a coupon I've been meaning to use,
on the nightstand. She turns the light
out on her side. It's her side, her light.
The left side is mine.

Night.

Night.

We're past clutching love. We're
not married, but I think I know
what it means. It's two lonely
people; it's two sides of the bed.
It doesn't take her long to fall asleep.
I watch her forehead unwrinkle.
I listen as her inhales and exhales
become spaced and even. At this moment,
I do not know her. She's not a woman.
All the inviting curves collapse. She is
a girl breathing in, breathing out.

In a memory she related to me--I think
she related to me--she asks a boy to give her
a turn on a swing. It's toward the end of recess.
She has waited. He says no. This is my swing.
She says it is the school's. He says the school
isn't sitting in it. I can almost remember why
she told me this story or some story like it.

I can't sleep without my fan on. She can't
fall asleep with it. I'll give her a couple more
minutes. I wonder what violence she dreams
of, of what forbidden ecstasy she views in
her private night. I do not know her. She
looks vulnerable, her body now bent in an S shape,
facing away from me. Am I scared for her? Of her?
Still sleeping, she bunches up her comforter;
she brings it to her face. Maybe that's marriage: being
scared for and of.

I turn on the fan. She stirs.

I'm sorry. I'll turn it off.

You can leave it on.

I'll turn it off.

Leave it.

She pulls my arm under her neck.
She brings her bottom against my thighs.

Will you hold me? Just for a second.

I can hold you longer.

Just a second.

This grief
has teeth

my son
it bites through

skin and bone
tearing at heart

and mind
(the deeper

the love
the harder

the pain
I find)

this grief
with its pearly whites

gnaws at me
through dull days

and dark nights
trying to drag me

to dark depths
shaking me

like a dog with bone
bringing me

to deep hurts
and aching moan

this grief
holds hard

bites deep
taking me

to dark dawns
and black dogs

of sunset red
and echoing memories

in numb
and hurting head

this grief has teeth
my son

biting through
bone and skin

tearing me within
but memories remain

strong and clear
and bright

which will
sustain me

through many
a deep dark night.

Love in an open hand
Free
Unhidden
And I am drowning in it

Throughout her adult life
all of the land shaded.
Feverless islands where the
aged couple sleep.
Never once have I hosted a party. Not once have I
told you, I have
been hurt.

Stupid white girl.
We are not allowed to do anything.
We're prim and proper, white girls.
We are not allowed to fight back.
Put us in our place, white girls.
We are not allowed real work.
We still want our twenty three cents back.

The child of fair skin and blue eyes.
But with all my female privilege,
Came a nasty stamp on my body.
Like a watermark.
FEMALE.
I have heard that when a woman looks in the mirror, she sees a woman.
But when a man looks in the mirror, he sees a human.

Even with that watermark, our pale skin is used as a canvas.
And everyone else has been handed the tools to color in our curves.
Covering us in blue and black and purple and red.
Redrawing our minds so they cannot process the discrimination,
Painting over our tears so our feelings can be buried,
Manufacturing open legs when you want them,
Closed when you don't.
Erasing the lips we use to speak out,
Erasing the eyes we use to see all of this.

You think just because you held the brush,
Just because you created this monstrosity of a "masterpiece"
You get to claim ownership of this piece of artwork
That you blatantly disregard
Is my BODY.

The "fe" you tack onto "male"
Does not stand for Free Entry.
The "wo" you tack onto "man"
Does not stand for Wipe Out.

Women are barely able hold a pencil.
I was lucky to hold one long enough to draw myself
A conscience, a backbone, legs to stand on, and a mind.
We were only taught how to use the back end of that pencil
To erase our mouth and keep the secrets.
But these days the secrets are keeping themselves.

I will not be put in a glass case
You will not charge admission
To have people come and analyze me.
Buy me.
Give me value.
Categorize me.
Preserve me the way you created.

You are no artists.
You are vandals.

I feel empty.
        a
   S   h  t t  r ed.
                        e                                  ­            

                                                               ­             Alone.

Like a canteen left in the dry arid desert behind the wilting Mojave Aster. As if someone had forgotten about it, half filled with water. The missing spaces like a reverberating echo.
Lost
        Lost
               Lost
                      
Like a storm cloud building as the pressure from air currents rises and the accumulated condensation of the world rest on it's shoulders, but the heavens never burst. There will be no torrents of power to wash clean away the earth.