I.
My son does not understand fear,
he is 3,
he thinks in color,
he believes in magic,
he says that our dog Smokey
controls the weather.

Watch him as he goes!
Jumping over cracks on sidewalks,
pretending to fly,
attempting to get near electric outlets
because he saw them spark once,
and fire,
fire is cool!

"Watch me Mommy!

watch me."

II.
Some days I stay in bed all day,
I tell everyone I am catching a cold,
a sinus infection,
another migraine again.

It is easier to lie than to explain,
that it is too difficult to shower,
to find an outfit, to brush my hair,
to make food,
to chew it.

Friends jokingly call me a hypochondriac,
my Mother thinks I am mellow dramatic,
My son asks me if I need my temperature checked.

It is too honest to say,
"I am fighting monsters, and they won today."
Who would believe me if I did?

We are taught since childhood
to not believe in the things
we can not see.

III.
The day we buried my Grandfather,
I wore my favorite gray dress,
I was scared to taint it
with such a sad memory,
but I was 8 months pregnant
and nothing else fit.

We threw dirt in a hole
as three strangers watched us grieve.
They stood with shovels ready to do their jobs,
ready to get home to their loved ones.  

All I could think about was how much
it aches to love anyone,
even in the good times, it aches.
Loss dances outside our window
like flames, waiting to engulf.

I vowed to protect my child
from any unnecessary pain,
I vowed to make him feel safe.

Now I fear I am the one
tainting him in gray.

IV.
Not every day is bad,
most days are nice, in fact,
some days are so good
that the bad ones seem
like distant memories.

On the good days I feel brave,
brave like my son;

I tickle his tummy and show him
which lights are stars, which are planets,
and tell him I love him, always,
no matter what.

Clanking his tired copper bowl
absurdly on the dry pine
a frosty reminder that hidden in the
dark dank garret of my abode

where the yawning, sloped
ceiling met the filthy crooked floorboards,
he occupied a sliver of cramped space,
amongst the boxes of forgotten Kodak's,
a hollow where the truth was
free to sit and rest a while

Fragments of blinding bone white
and Tuscany yellow sought refuge
for half days, illuminating dusty
trunks filled with the
keepsakes of my juvenescence

Intimate company, nothing more
than transient guests, were
distracted by my warm and
inviting home, oblivious
to the sequestered occupant
in the above

Skylights softly guiding the
tangerine glow into
the wool fabric of the
boorish night  

The facade was festooned with
baby’s breath and lavender that
dangled from freshly painted arches
cloaking the rot beneath

Rusted, wind chimes played
off key sonnets for the lesser rabble,
who danced where the
woodland greeted the blue

Inside, heavy fall linens were
folded square, the perfume of
yesterday’s respite lingering,
a strident reminder that, all things,
even love, ceases to exist after
perpetual misuse and
changing seasons

Ninety-degree angles issued a decree,
demanding a strict alignment of all the
handsome trinkets, widgets, and gizmos
that defined me, placated me,
if only for a breath, filling the space
between empty brass picture frames
on the dust free mantle

Mutual secrets were held captive
behind pursed lips
Fearful of callous abandonment,
I predict his return from the
vile, decrepit part of my home,
where he sleeps

When the jubilant laughter of
my guests would break the
lonely apprehensive silence,
his boisterous uneven footsteps
would protest his confinement
and send them away  

I am left alone with bottled potions,
worn out diamonds and
stationery inked with
words of dissolution

Once again, he reminds me that,

I am home, an abandoned widower,
comfortable in my attic of pine

Purity and righteousness poached  
Black and White, were his preferred colors
His discomfort; alleviated mine,
for a little while,
he let me know when it was necessary again;
restraints juddering on the copper

I examined his naked anatomy,
under an iridescent light, contusions and
lacerations of periwinkle and cobalt ribbons
patterned the surface, maturation, biology,
eliminated the evidence
yet, the specters had set out to
permanently engrave his anguish on the
forgotten mausoleum walls of his amygdala

His ravenous mouth, was a trough
digesting slices of caked soot,
teeth stained of brilliant grey from
yesterday’s regurgitated rations;
Indeed, the same meal that his autocrat
and waif orphan caregivers were fed,
a recipe handed down from generations past,
for they knew no better

I fed his gluttonous jaws candied
morsels of glazed guilt,
as gleaming as the silverware that
was used to nourish him
The feeding spoon projected a
warped image, enough to reveal my reflection,
obscured, my face wry, confused and odious
I looked away

The frosted ground met the sun that day in March,
summoning the resurrection of all that was dead,
the long slumber was coming to an end

Uncomfortable, and terrified
I returned to see him, his face reflected mine
I listened, I understood, I forgave

Liberated and no longer concealed,
the child left peacefully in the
tranquility of spring

Don't stress over what you can't control...you're only wasting time and energy. I know it's easier said than done but the more you keep thinking about the uncontrollable elements of your life...the more you will hamper the controllable parts of your life.

That did it
He was tired of coming home from work
and finding
a ******* book on the table
instead of food

but the book was also on his
pillow when he went to bed

on the toilet tank

in the garage

in the shed behind the house

and on the dashboard of his ******* car

He had enough of it

And one day he told her
he had enough of it and enough of her
It was time to break up
this wasn't going to work

He was not going to quit smoking
and she was not going to quit nagging him
to read her book on quitting smoking

"I won't marry you until you're 101 days clean,"
she'd said

He smoked a pack and a half a day

It was time to break up
and, gods, she didn't take it lightly

In that morning he left her alone to collect
all her stuff from his house and be gone
by the time he returned

She was indeed gone by the time he returned
and took nothing more than what belonged to
her and even left something behind
Her self-published book on how to quit smoking,
what else?

He sighed
picked it up from the coffee table
looked it over
sat on the couch
put a cigarette between his lips and
when he lit it the house blew up

Perhaps a big moral in the book was to
always check the gas after a
breakup

but it was too late now

When love dies,
It is not always hatred that takes its place,
Sometimes it is nothingness and void showing their ugly face.

When bravery dies,
It is not always cowardice blowing its horn,
Sometimes acceptance of the fear is born.

When kindness you used to receive dies,
It is not always that cruelty looks promising and grand,
Sometimes self protection and love come forward to hold your hand.

But when humanity dies,
It is always melancholy and destruction making their way,
No good or constructive feeling ever gets a say.