Fragile beating heart
written November 8th, 1997, 1am

What would you do,
if every day of your life,
you carried with you,
your fragile beating heart?

Each day new risks,
that a bump or strong breeze,
might give wound to,
your fragile beating heart.

(Imagine trying to manage that and a briefcase.)

Yet you make your way,
through each day,
and finally at evening to home,
your fragile beating heart intact.

Each dusk, the time worn ritual,
of mending the wounds of,
tending the scrapes of,
your fragile beating heart.

Then finally to sleep,
everything secured and locked down,
body, mind, soul,
and fragile beating heart.

But really...

How long could you go on?
If every day of your life,
you had to carry with you,
your fragile beating heart?

from Webster's: Totem(n) - among some peoples, an animal or natural object taken as the symbol of a family or clan.

Totem scenes: My real home
written November 5th, 1997

I wonder
what is a real home?
It's a question I used to think
I knew the answer to.

My real home growing up
was of course the one I lived in
where bits of pottery and votive candles
formed totem scenes on end tables.

There was a mystery to these totem scenes:
candle stick, corn husk doll, pottery bowl;
all arranged according to some greater pattern
that I didn't understand, but knew was pivotal.

Each day, I came home from school
putting all the things in their places
clearing away anything that didn't belong
in the totem scenes.

Then I would dust,
moving each item from its place:
ornament, woven bowl, carved animal;
and polish with lemon scented Pledge.

I'd then return, each totem item
carefully back to its appointed place
trying to place each in the same place and order
as it had been in before.

But inside I always worried,
No . . . I knew that
because I didn't understand the greater pattern
of where each item belonged,

somehow my false reproductions
of the totem scenes
cracked the very foundation
of my real home.

My fear is light pink
written April 26th, 1995

my fear is light pink
light pink painted over the walls
of the room i grew up in

a child's room painted pastel pink
the color of cotton candy
a nice color for a little girl
a little girl

little (from webster's)
small in size, amount, degree
small in importance or power
short in duration

a child small in size, amount, and degree
dependent on those around her
little body trying to hide
never succeeding

a child small in importance or power
little fists balled up
lacking physical power
lacking importance or value

a childhood short in duration
when do children become adults?
when the damage has been too great?

those little years
that are now the basis
of the rest of my long life
a life that sometimes feels like an eternity

pink is
the color of early sunsets
candy hearts at valentine's day
beads in a child's necklace
and the color of my fear
my fear

fear wrapped around me
surrounding me
blinding me with its
sickening sweet color
ever-present

not just any child
a girl child
me

Definitions of hurt
written March 14th, 2021

My story is not
of physical violence and love withheld.
My story
is of violation and love mixed together.

When love is defined that way
with things that don't leave marks
on a child afraid to cry
different definitions of hurt
are learned by the body - by my body.

You reach out to touch my *****
I say, "Please don't hurt me"
you say, "I would never hurt you"
and then you touch me
pushing things into me
not understanding
that my body learned
my body knows
my body screams in pain
at that intimate touch that
the world defines as pleasure

"Don't hurt me?" I ask
you don't understand
my definition of hurt
my inability to say
I know you would want me to say
certainly any sane adult would say

"No. That hurts. Stop. I don't want this."

Happy endings
written June 8th, 2021

I think about stories
with happy endings
that everyone recognizes
as appropriate and proper.

It is what people expect
resolution, the good guys win
happiness rules the day
the story is complete.

My life is a story
which I write in my poems
though I am not sure
what the ending will be.

I want to tell my story
with the ending unknown
I need for this
to be enough.

I wouldn't save much except...
written January 22nd, 2021

There is not much
I want to save from my childhood
growing up in a small farm town
except for...

Sunsets exploding gently over the fields
colors rolling as far as the eye could see
red orange yellow pink
marking the transition
from day into night.

Sitting on that swing
hung on the swing-set
we used to play on as children.
I would sit there at night
staring up at the stars
imagining the night air
wrapped around me
like a blanket.

Books sitting outside our garage
when I got off the bus
donations for my mom's club
would I find rabbits that talked?
architect's grand visions?
those books my ticket
to far off worlds.

Neighbors and pets
in the yards around ours
part of the fabric
of my life day to day
running through their yards
playing with their dogs
wondering about their lives
so close to mine.

The plum tree
  that profusely gave us
  bushels of plums one summer
   then died.
The walnut tree that my father
   and then the squirrels thought
   was a fantastic idea.
The raspberries
   that never made it into the house
   because I ate them
   still warm from the sun.

The ballet in Chicago with my dad
magical every time
but sitting at eye level that first time
for the Nutcracker
and being taken away
by dance, costumes, sets, and music
to a fantastical world.

Playing stamps
with Grandpa
in early elementary school.
I was the quiet child
He always said
he didn't know how
to spell the countries either
but I think he really did know.

There is not much
I want to save from my childhood
except for these things
which make me smile
and transport me
to happy moments
which did exist.

~And everyday it was difficult, walking around and knowing that people saw me one way, knowing that they were wrong, so completely wrong, that the real me was invisible to them. It didn't even exist to them.
   So: If nobody sees you, are you still there?
—Akwaeke Emezi, The Death of Vivek Oji

Visible
written June 5th, 2021

I slowly approach
the idea of
being visible
after a lifetime of
being afraid
of being seen.

Being invisible
is a kind of protection.
If I can be invisible
disappear even to myself
maybe the pain
won't exist.

I can testify
to the pain still felt
even when
holding perfectly still
invisible to the world.

Self is something
we are alone with
by our selves
but also
something we are
in relation
with others.

I reach out with this poem
to declare my self
to you.
To claim my space
in this world.
To begin to reveal
me.