relationships – Page 34 – One Woman's Quest

Choices

“Come live with us”, Mother suggests
in her there’s-nothing-we-can’t-handle
tone of voice. Father lowers paper,
raises eyebrows, stern blue eyes
flashing over spectacle rims, says
nothing. Am I supposed to interpret
concordance or contradiction?

“But you live in a box! Where would
I sleep?” “More of a rectangle.”
I contemplate room dividers, imagine
claiming a corner of the room.

Or I can move in with the man-child,
learn to tolerate delusions, listen
to incessant rants of how he’s been
wronged, content myself with
picking up after endless trails of
discards – same four-walled
containment, different cohabitant.

But wait! “Where’s the plumbing?”
How does one discreetly manage
personal excrement in a one-roomed
existence? I startle; awaken.

No plumbing needed here;
I’ve received an invitation
from the grave!

Sometimes life gives us choices;
no guarantee either will be palatable.

Beauty and the Beast Revisited

Met a bear who proclaimed himself man –
knew the instant I spotted him, lumbering
gait approaching, that he was an animal,
feared for my safety, would have retreated,

stayed at my mother’s side – sheltered in
familiarity – were I not so fixated on his
blatant woundedness. Sympathy blinding
sensibility, I listened, hypnotized

by the whiteness of his exposed skin,
wanted to believe the veracity of his
tales of conversion, could visualize
him sitting in church, imagine the

horror of the congregants melting,
as I was, into acceptance, drinking
in his words, hearts soaring at his
professed abstinence from sins of

the flesh; none of us immune to
fairy-tale endings, faith above all.
Left the sanctity of mother’s fold,
followed him to his wooded lair;

read humility into his minimalist
housing, swept away his cobwebs
and my dreams, determined to
find fulfillment in domesticity.

The forest has its own story to tell –
nature does not lie – a beast does not
its essence forget, in time his true
temperament emerged, and I, lost,

withered into a crumpled ball,
a wisp of a character, weakened,
disheartened, could not bend
myself to become either bear

nor Goldilocks, could not tame
his insatiable grumblings nor
abide long winters confined,
discovered too late the folly

of my girlish fantasies, learned
that sympathy did not beget love,
and denying instincts did not alter
the fact that a bear is not a man.

Birthing The Heroic

If the Ninja Turtles had a mother,
I’d be her – an overly pure-hearted
woman with a penchant for rescuing
victims and conquering evil.

I’d prod them to stand up to injustice,
teach them the difference between hiding
and protecting themselves, encourage them
to reveal their soft-underbellies with pride.

I’d teach them the importance of humility,
(thus the masks), to never back down in
the face of danger, and above all to treat
women as equals, defend friends.

If I birthed the Ninja Turtles, I would
expect their undying loyalty, be certain
that I could call them at any moment,
feel safe and secure in my aging.

Should they ever let me down, ignore
my cries for help, I would know they
were in trouble, would brace myself
to fight the evil that plagued them.

Become a superwoman, a christ-like
figure, casting out demons, saving
the world, demonstrating that I am
worthy of my place as matriarch.

Take myself so seriously, I would not
notice that others are disinterested,
self-absorbed, or asleep, unaware of
our super-powers, worship their own.

Did I say worship? Am I somehow
delusional, so well-intentioned,
idealistic, that I cannot see the
impossibilities here – have ignored

that these are mutants, not children
been so focused on the heroic –
believed in the power of fiction –
blinded to the caricature I’ve become?

Of course the Ninja Turtles do not
have a mother, are the brainchild
of their illustrator, whose creative
blood enliven them, scripts them.

Seems I need to find a project of
my own, address my biological
ravings in a more productive, less
fictionalized manner – get real.

Response to Scorned

Hey, I didn’t force you into my bed,
seem to recall you came willingly,
never pretended to be Prince Charming,
was actually intimidated by your Disney
fantasies – thought you liked our
intimacy, would have got up to look
after the children, but you were already
on it, and besides, I never do it right.

The other woman was never about you,
it was about me, feeling inadequate in
face of your uber-confidence, getting
my ego stroked, and …well, you know –
never imagined it would lead here, value
my family – leave the children out of it!

Emasculation?! Let me tell you, working
my ass off to make you happy, when one
minute you say you want one thing, and
the next you chastise my for not knowing
that was a ploy and that I should know
what you actually want, because I am
supposed to be a mind reader – and how
did I know that your great-uncle Bob was
a leach, so I’m expected to make reparation.

Okay, I made a mistake, gave into temptation,
went for the bait, but it was never her I wanted.
All I want is the couple we used to be, that
happy go-lucky, hotter than hell twosome,
who dreamed of a family, and a mortgage,
two cars, two kids, and a dog – I just didn’t
realize it would all be so hard – and somehow
I just started to feel left out of the party, and
don’t worry I’m getting my payback – will
be punished forever – you try being a man!

Scorned Woman’s Rage

Before I jump into another man’s bed,
(especially one who has already cheated),
whisper my deepest yearnings to his
lusting heart, arch my hips to meet his
less than satisfactory thrust, I will make
sure that his compassion meets mine,
that he has the balls to prioritize, and
does not soften at crucial junctures.

I can look back at past follies, blame
hormonal rages, or beat myself over
shameless acts, but I am not the one
whose cojones, like deflated balloons,
lacked the wherewithal to differentiate
between brain and penis, and chose
to corrupt rather than protect the
sanctity of our children’s future.

Call it emasculation! Call it female
wrath; accountability goes both ways,
and as long as we women are willing
to carry the burden of guilt, believe
messages shoved down our throats,
and submit to impossible ideation;
relationships will continue to crumble –
Stand up! Make a statement! Be a man!

Is Daddy Dead?

Tucks her granddaughter in,
gazes into wide blue eyes,
flashes back to another girl –
now grown – apple cheeks,
and an unruly thicket of hair.

Nostalgia is shattered as
the child smiles back, lips
betraying a trace of another –
once father – whose absence
clouds the old woman’s heart.

She holds the child closer,
reassuring her undying love,
cannot not shake the echo
of words spoken only that day:
Kayla’s daddy always picks her up.

Told the teacher her dad is dead;
a reasonable conclusion for a
young mind unable to articulate
the questions in her heart: why
his name is only ever whispered.

Tries to draw his picture, talks
of missing his cuddles, surely,
cannot remember a man who
left before she was two – the
grandmother prays silently.

What will they say when she asks?
Niceties about how he wasn’t ready?
Leave her to believe she is somehow
lacking, unlovable, when in truth
it is he who is incapable of loving.

Chases women like cotton candy,
three or four a day, cannot help
himself, an internet-driven obsession,
uses his daughter’s picture as bait –
perhaps she is right, her father is dead.

In Communion Prevails

Confront intrusion
head on, but know
that it comes with
a single focus, and
not from the sleep
of complacency.

Investigate when
it awakens you,
but be aware that
armed with the
element of surprise
it will overcome you,

tie you up in knots,
render you helpless,
oppressed, mute;
the vulnerability you
fight to protect, now
your only strength.

Fragility relying on
resourcefulness will
counterattack, take
appropriate measures,
stumble, falter, miss
at first, but in the end

conquer the invader,
reaching out for help
humbled enough to
admit dependency,
eyes open to solutions,
compassion awakening.

Isolation is disruption’s
ally; shared experience
unmasks the threat,
tears open its cover,
unites purpose, and
in communion prevails.

Dear Child

I know a little girl,
whose hair in ringlets
falls, unkempt from lack
of brushing; who stands
when she should be sitting;
who laughs with defiance when
challenged, her dark eyes gleaming
with mischief; who holds her chin up
high and stamps her feet, arms folded
in protest when she does not get her way.

I see that little girl,
have watched her play,
with a wild imagination,
and a fearless temperament;
have watched her climb a tree,
scrap with any bully, and dare to
venture on her own; have witnessed
her alone times, hidden and obscured,
watched as she cried unheeded, buried
herself in books, drawing, and future dreams.

I feel that little girl,
who wears such a brave
exterior to mask her inner
fears; who bears a burden of
responsibility to carry the weight
of those around her; who believes
she has the power to make her mother
cry, to cause her father’s violence, to save
her sisters from pain; who feels the punishment
of her situation and ascribes it to unworthiness.

I love that little girl,
whose mind is always
churning, who prays to a
god she’s never seen, and
makes wishes on rainbows;
who longs to make a difference,
and refuses to believe that suffering
is all there is; who devotes herself to
being a better person, and hopes one day
that she’ll finally feel at peace in the world.

I hold that little girl,
warm within my heart,
listen to her fears, hear
her heart’s longing; praise
her courageous efforts, appease
her doubts, offer condolences for
losses, encouragement for change,
forgive her of her burdens; allay her
misperceptions, reassure her worth,
promise to never let her go: she is me.

Lights, Cameras, Heartache

Dressed herself in sequins,
sparkled from head to toe,
courted celebrity, falling for
the spell – could not see the
lies presented, nor the trail
of endless tears behind him.

He was drawn by her passion,
a radiant exuberance buoying
his spirit, her love reminiscent
of the mother he’d lost long ago,
like the family he never knew,
he followed her lead; intrigued.

She set the scene for perfection,
fretted over each detail, prayed
that all would come together,
a relationship fated to be,
failed to see the patterns that
would surely sabotage her.

Love was never his intention,
preferred young women, was
already involved, thirsted only
for her charm, hungered for
the brilliance of her soul, it was
her mystery that he craved.

She immersed himself in his
cause, committed to finding
his truth, failed to heed
inner authority, broke her
own rules, lost balance after
his abandonment; ashamed.

He’d never wanted saving,
thought he’d been clear all
along, preferred being single
avoided tarnishing his star,
had merely liked his reflection
shimmering beneath her glow.

Seasons of Love

Winter came early –
seeped into intimate
corners, froze hearts.

Walls papered white,
intending cheer, only
accented bitter cold.

Layers of submission,
hope, denial, ineffectual
in refueling the warmth.

She followed him down
the unavoidable slope
deep into the abyss.

Chilled, shaken she
braced for the arduous
trek ahead, injected

lightness into an
impossible situation,
committed, unaware

that he’d moved on,
abandoned her with his
customary indifference.

Years later, thawed
by the warmth of solitude
she reflected, wondered

how the blatancy of his
oddities has escaped her –
his fixation on antiquated

ideals, how he furnished
her mind with incoherencies,
collected things, not values.

She had merely been
an observer in his life,
yet it had escaped her

that it was the fiery
summer of her soul,
that had melted his ice

her scorching, all-
embracing passion
that had united them

and, as in all things
seasonally inevitable,
their love would die.