I hear the clanking of the gears and ropes
As the curtain starts its slow descent.
I’m rushing to get all my speeches in-
I thought the final scene would go on longer.

But I somehow forgot my lines, the prompter was asleep,
And I tripped across the brace cleats on my entrance
The apron edge is way too close.  I feel lightheaded.
I can see my understudy waiting in the wings.

I thought that I could play my role with some elan
For the entire duration of the local run
But seven shows with matinees to total nine
Have strained my voice and dulled my ears

So I can’t hit the high notes any more.
I know the lyrics and the tunes-
I play them in my sleep instead of waking up
But nonetheless I miss my cues and every note is flat.

The audience is unaware.  They haven’t read the book.
They cannot know the words left out, the blocking gone awry,
My struggle as I patch it up and try to hide
Behind my past reviews - when everything I did was right.

Tassels shimmy on the bottom of the velvet drape
As it slips down behind  me - out in front when I should be in back.
If only I could juggle - no one would suspect
That this will be my final curtain call and I have got it wrong.

She awkward steps back kitchen-side
This pan-lapsed food-fond alchemist
To where her latent joys reside
In flavour-labours sanctified
    Through boils, in bakes, on roasting
Her last cooked dinner, holiday
Before her dear one took their leave
Too painful kitchen-time replay
So, pots and mixers stored away
    Lost joy of home-heart toasting

Now humming with slight body quake
Full fear of fast descent in tears
Yet realising the heady ache
Was no impending weep-long lake
    But simple mess frustration
In truth the galley, clean enough
But who put all her tools away?
No soldier knife line, shining tough
No pin for shortcrust, brush for puff
    No decorating station

Crisp tuts for every tool misplaced
With tiny sighing shoulder arch
Utensils that could not be traced
Like grieving that could not be faced
    Rough substitute located
While losing whisk, sieve, spoon, and knife
With larger pieces from her past
In working through small kitchen strife
She found her hiding zest for life
    In crusty pastry braided
    Joy-cooking reinstated

i am not thankful for my trauma.

my trauma did not make me a stronger,
better person.
my trauma put me into a constant state of fear.
my trauma made it impossible for me to feel secure.
my trauma told me i was unlovable and made me think maybe i was a bad person.
my trauma doesn’t let me rest.
my trauma will never stop following me.

my trauma did not make me stronger.
it made me weak and terrified of vulnerability.

so stop telling me how strong i am for overcoming things i never should’ve had to.
i don’t want to be strong,
i want to be able to feel my emotions,
i want to be able to be vulnerable, without fear.

i want to be unapologetically me again.
i miss what’s dead in me

speaking the invisible visible
sharing a constant acceptance
acknowledging unity is real.

A single gull in turbulence soars strange
Beach wind-groans whipping sand to concrete hail
In mute fatigue, the blue-grey sky submits
Obedient to winter’s shore-lashed slap
Until pacific breezy balms prevail

Across the roadway suburbs roost on dunes
Dry salt-sand soils, poor beds for cottage plants
Post sand-blast rain provides a rare life-drink
Wet softens crunchy grasses wielding burrs
Now possible their jaunty wind-bend dance

Three weeks have lapsed since breath was morphed to talk
Your silence cuts - ice words would waste chill air
I huddle under muddled blankets shield
To hide-sleep travel time to spend the day
No warmth in lonely waking waiting there

This chatless treatment, stony, icy hush
Sound muffles as a newly fallen snow
In quiet, distant cool is bitter fierce
Cold time a sorry echo of disdain
As timid clock dull thud-ticks glacial slow

New sound returns thawed tempers given days
Shy cautious in first breaths, as blue-grey sky
Out-waits the stinging punishment in sand
Outstretched the quaking warmness-seeking hand
As spring comes melting frost to snug and dry

i tend to blame my mother for everything that is wrong with me.
the insanity and
insecurity
and addiction to temporarily filling a void meant for
her love.
My heart beats to the rhythm of her footsteps,
counting how many strides
i have left
to wipe away my tears before
she reaches my door.
there is no margin for error in her unspoken expectations.

i used to blame anything but myself for my actions.
i was a compulsive liar for 4 years,
a narcotic addict for 5.
i layered lies like pills
scattered throughout my room,
each finding their way into my mouth
at the wrong time.

i am the only thing that is wrong with myself.
i'm haunted by reflections in the mirror,
echoes of the girl i couldn't save.
i tried to scrub her off my skin,
carve around the edges and
crawl out of this body.
i became too familiar with the salty taste of bleakness,
a bittersweet over dose.
if only the child-locks on
medicine bottles
worked even after the child-like innocence was
lost.

i think
i want to be saved
a little more than
i want to be loved.