He kissed her neck and she closed her eyes.
The 80s sidled up to her opposite ear
whispering reminders that these could be lies.
Famished, she reached out for bread
but holes in the walls screamed that she could never eat.
The yearning so desperate, she tried to stomp
on the tapping foot
telling her she was expecting too much.
Practice made her better and more talented,
twisting with contortions to
***** out enemies like cigarette ash,
rewarding her with
belief in the truth that these were lies. Mostly.
And when she finally relaxed
the one that championed her all along forgot to notice she was in trouble.
Then lies and truths became friends instead of enemies
joining forces to taunt her and
laugh at her.
She tried to champion herself, and
ran to pour water on erupting fires like a game of Whack A Mole
hair sticking to her sweaty face and
blinding her even more.
Her champion was sitting down
picking dandelions and writing songs for them.
She tried to yell for help,
to save him herself,
to run up and down hill as fast as she could, but
no one noticed and
no one spoke the language.
In the end, she decided to stop trying to
put out the fires
and make s’mores instead
even if she was the only one eating.
She couldn’t make herself into a dandelion and
she couldn’t make anyone else hungry.
How this would dull her soul
was a question she didn’t have the courage for.

Pre dawn glory
inching in.
Secrets invite.
I always taint,
but this is stronger than I.
This dark,
holding promise,
is not the dark of my nightmares;
it is kind.
Sleepy, I let my eyes fall shut again.
As I have done so many times before,
I waste this invitation
To dance
With the Divine.

You holding the pan, hands shaking, pan seesawing
Me feeling doom growing in the air like electricity building
You crumbling
Me swallowing danger
Them coming through the door, a bed on wheels
Me thinking that was funny
Him in the background, acting uninvolved
Me standing on the couch, forbidden
You lying on the funny bed
Me wondering if they would laugh at your clown slippers
You…I can’t see your face
Me looking at him
Him sending me away
Me sleeping in the neighbor’s bathtub, where it was safe.
You. Alone.
Me. Alone.
Him. Alone.

I remember why I left this place.
It smells like frustration.
So oppressive that breathing hardly seems worth it.
I remember why I left this place, and I can’t believe I came back here.

A stew of anxiety, worry, pain and heightened alarm with big chunks of fear.
So much responsibility here that one mis-step will cause the world to stop turning on its axis.
If only you’d zigged instead of zagged.
If only you’d been better balanced.
If only you’d been better.

My mouth holds the aftertaste of this wretched place.
That won't leave until I am around the corner from this visit.
Its hooks left tender little marks.
I will keep praying that I can turn back around if I find myself on the path here again.
I wish God would take some places off the map.

How many chairs have we parked ourselves on,
side by side
in these 6,205 days of marriage?
Side by side at our wedding reception
principals’ offices
school graduations
courtrooms
funerals
new baby nurseries
counselors’ offices
new cars and
bars.

In lawn chairs
pews
rockers
couches
backseats and
airline seats.

The size and shapes of the imprints
we leave behind
changing over time.
The faces of others seated with us coming and going.

Always, we have tried to leave a trail of love,
like the slime of slugs and snails.
And for each other, an extra measure.

There’s a stain on the floor
I can’t get out.
I put a rug over it, but it peeked over the edge.
I made the dog sleep on it, but he wouldn’t stay.
I drew a face on it and called it Frank.

There’s a stain on the floor
I can’t get out.
It screams at me when I sit visiting with friends.
It waves its arms at me when I try to read my book.
F*ck you, Frank.

There’s a stain on the floor
I can’t get out.
It keeps me company when rains come.
It listens to my midnight rants about politics and war and hemlines.
Frank and I are very happy.

Finger traces scar,  
reminding me with numbness.
I catch at the thought-
I miss the pain. At least I was visible.
And memory is a trickster
the way he helps you pretend.