Category: women’s issues

Re-Purposing the Garage

It’s complicated, really, but so much
is defined by the presence of a garage.

Here is a stand-alone, connected by
a breezeway, single-car with storage;

could have been so much more –
had planned for it, but life changes.

Once had an oversized garage, direct
access, housed two vehicles, custom

built, but the cars are gone now, and
the single stands vacant, like my mind.

Except, the other day, I swore I glimpsed
an animal there, perched on the shelving

fierce, cat-like eyes caught in the dim
light of the open doorway, a tigress,

body crouched, poised to strike, backed
away, convinced it was a hallucination,

but then there she was again, clawing
at my imagination, piercing my senses;

I tended to the bleeding, chastising my
foolishness – of course she wasn’t real –

I lost my feminine prowess long ago,
am more of a groundhog now – slow

moving, podgy, sniffing the air for hints
of change, burrowing in face of trouble,

more a scrounger than a dweller, prefer
underground to domesticated storage.

A family lived here once: a tightly knit
portrait of three, lulled by the protection

offered – no storms to weather, just
sheltered transitions until the husband

left, daughter in tow; ducked beneath
the closing of the automated door –

left me, trapped under the layers of
debris, choking on their fumes, a flea-

bitten heap of a woman, homeless,
buried in a mound of bitter regrets;

almost missed her existence, except
for those grasping, white-knuckled

fingers emerging from the heap,
pleading for rescue, begging for

revival; I would shoulder her, one
more responsibility burdening

progress, shuddered to host such
destruction within my walls, would

have tended to her suffering more
promptly had not my daughter’s

malingering, suspiciously bent on
thievery, robbed me of equilibrium –

this state of heightened vigilance
a cause for neglecting self – have

humoured too many who would take
advantage of me, cannot trust my own

instincts, am disillusioned, no longer
content with inconsistencies, need to

confront the condition of my garage,
clean out the accumulation of stored

nonessentials; maybe hold a sale,
whitewash the interior and buy a car.

th

(Feature image from: maiko-girl.deviantart.com)

Women Are Red

Women bleed –
red blots in an otherwise
black and white world –

have learned the language,
yet feel like foreigners,
undermined by nuances;

travel this patriarchal
landscape, would-be leaders
whose compassion like blood

unsettles the ambitious,
too exhausted to play the game
corporate agendas do not align

with weary-hearted
mothers who would slow
progress to raise wholeness.

We take back seats,
submit to sermons from self-
proclaimed prophets, who mime:

words without substance,
are starving for sustenance
in a fast food, quick fix world

where harm is overlooked
in praise of mass consumption –
crave relief from the imbalance –

seek woman-only refuge
to vent our quiet rebellion,
give voice to our marginalization.

Our blood is thick, heavy,
like our passion, offensive to some
and like our power, unstoppable.

(image:  http://www.odditycentral.com)

These are Warriors

Younger women than I
are giving birth, unaware
of indifference; joyous
expectancy blotting out
smells of disinfectant,
and decay – I am invisible
to them, my daughters.

Babies they are, bringing
forth life, unripened souls,
hopeful, ignorant, unaware
that I know what violations
have planted the seeds, am
no stranger to the cruelties
of humanity, my sisters.

I may be unknown here,
but neglect is universal –
it’s brutality unremarkable –
am praying for miracles,
while the world spins, lives
losing control, and all I can
do is stand witness, Mother.

(Photo credit:  Huffington Post)

Compulsive Clotheshound

I would befriend hesitation,
take her shopping with me,
invest the time, but impulse
is my constant companion.

Hesitation, born of shared
trauma, labours over pain-
filled decisions; my need is
palpable, throbbing, must

suffocate it beneath layers
of numbing fabric, weight;
afraid to show myself, afraid
that she will find me, block

any progress, or worse, make
me pay for these layers of
stolen moments; encounter
crazy reflected in her eyes.

(Photo from getleashedmag.com)

If I Were a Kitchen

If I were a kitchen, I’d want
an old-fashioned woman
at my counters, rolling dough,
canning – pickles, chutney, jam –
homemade pasta sauce, and
every Sunday a roast. She’d
wear her sweat like a saint,
ignore her aching back, one
practiced hand feeding her
Carnation baby, while other
children flocked to Formica,
hot flesh sticking to vinyl,
as they picked at fresh made
sweet buns, the pot on the
stove perpetually simmering.

Or give me modern efficiency –
ninjas and presses, air fryers,
and induction cookers – let the
children belly up to the breakfast
bar, chomp on veggies and humus,
while Mom totes baby in a sling,
and preps her bone broth, strains
of Baby Einstein emitting from
a propped up iPad, while a cellphone
vibrates on granite and the Keurig
spits out one more Starbucks Pike .

Just don’t abandon me, piles
of unopened mail, or tossed
aside receipts company for
coffee rings on my counters.
Please don’t litter my surfaces
with rotting takeout containers,
or dishes caked with process
cheese residue, leave my
stainless steel sinks stained,
spoiled food reeking in the
refrigerator, traces of late night
mishaps curdling on the floor;
the absence of familial sounds
declaring my presence invalid.

Strike Out

I would stand on my head,
call in the big leagues,
imagine fun, opportunity,

but constantly meet with
the wall of your limitations.

My desire is innocent – impish
maybe – dependable; hope to
create memorable moments,

but boredom is oppressive,
and you are shutting me out.

I am alone here, hoop jumping,
giving of myself, willing to take
ownership in this rejection play

but relationship is not one-sided
and this game piece is opting out.

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Checked Out

Every woman needs a man,
her mother told her, to make
her complete.  To submit,

she realizes, too late, soul
traded for high-rise living,
big city dreams numbing

inner losses; she eats to
appease an inner sorrow,
a second-rate childhood,

afraid of being a burden,
loathe to create a stir,
conditioned complacency:

appeasing, pleasing, follows
plans, avoids decisions, never
really knows where she is going.

Can she fault the man, schooled
to provide – the alpha male taking
ownership/ charge?  His child

lives here too, feeds on impulses,
craves attention, overcompensates
for fears of lacking with bravado;

cannot understand why she never
asserts her self, alternately reads
acceptance and disapproval, frets –

an eternally unsettled gnawing gut.
They stumble over one another, seek
separation in small quarters, discuss

repairmen, schedules – nothing;
avoid deeper issues like the fact
that they are both suffocating, near

jumping off the ledge of their high
faluting existence, into the snarl
of traffic that immobilizes them.

The noise of city living has negated
their ability to listen, the distractions
altered them; the distance between

is too far to bridge in a single sigh,
and she, no longer submissive,
has joined him, and checked out.

Love, Like Shoes

If searching for love
was like shopping for shoes,
I’d fixate on the simplest
of finds, choosing practicality
over fashion flair.

My preference is for earthy,
unassuming, plain is fine
as long as the structure
gives me room to breath –
no grasping too tight.

If I shopped for love,
like I do for shoes,
I’d ignore those pushy
sales lines, opt instead
for a supportive sole,

settle for guaranteed comfort
over flashy heels, can’t bear
the instability of pedestals,
love flattery like most,
but need to feel grounded.

No doubt I’d question
my selection, offer it up
to my children for feedback
be mocked, dissuaded,
put it back and search anew,

discover futility in my seeking,
realize that I need new love
like I need new shoes –
only a foolish indulgence
for a woman who lives in bed.

th

I Stand In The Doorway

Surrounded by the animated chatter of youth,
a mother piles food on plates, busies herself
with addressing individual needs, smiles warmly.

In another room, a woman lies lifeless, grieving
a life now passed, children gone, an absentee mate;
she is alone, feels the burden of her inadequacy.

I stand in the doorway between the two,
longing to join the reverie in one room,
unable to tear myself away from the other.

Would you like something to eat? I offer,
wanting to draw her her out of isolation,
but she turns away, claims to be dieting.

That’s not the right way to go about it…
her eyes are cold, dying, my words a lecture,
how can she ignore the succulent aromas?

Outside, the men gather, raising glasses
and voices, masculine camaraderie, content
to let the women do their thing – oblivious.

We could join the party, I offer, but she is
tired of parties, tired of small talk, tired of
it all. I am inclined to agree, have known futility.

I want to go back into the kitchen, forget
about her, but it’s too late; I’ve touched
her sorrow, cannot let go, am powerless.

Think I’ll go outside, air out my mind,
sit amongst the clueless, talk about
everything and nothing, deny responsibility.

I stand in the doorway between two women
one who finds purpose in service to others,
and one whose life has lost all meaning.

I stand in the doorway between the two,
and notice that the mother is no longer me,
and that woman in the bed has no future,

and suddenly realize that I have choices,
and that motherhood or empty-nester
are self-imposed definitions, irrelevant.

Whether to participate or not in life is my call
and not a reflection of how I feel about my body
or whether or not I am giving or doing enough.

I turn from that doorway and make a decision
to just walk away – the kitchen will always be
a place of vitality and the bedroom a refuge

and me, I will be outside enjoying a drink
and conversing about who knows what
and living, obligation-free, in the moment.

 

Lacking

Met a man who fulfilled
her dreams, saw in him
the qualities she lacked.

Projected possibility,
overlooked his Spartan
nature, interjected hope.

Catered to his friends
befriended offspring
re-envisioned his life.

Moved in; organized
planned, replaced self
with wifely anticipation.

Overcompensated for lack
with people pleasing panache,
felt judgment from every angle.

Lost sight of her lover,
overshadowed by the
darkness of her past

In a panic, she withdrew
saw folly in her actions
questioned his intentions

reassurances highlighted
her vulnerability, she was
a broken-winged bird.

Stay, he pleaded, I need you
but she was already gone,
chose self over his lacking.