Sorry – so much inadequacy bundled into one word as if five letters can convey depths of regret, shock, dismay
Seems I am the spark to your lighter fluid – unintentional, I swear
Still reeling from the aftermath of the explosion
Attempting to deconstruct the formula – precautionary
I am sorry – that you are enraged, that you are so obviously disappointed that you are consumed with resentment – except, it is sadness, not regret that I feel.
I cannot own this, was always honest, forthright, did not feed your expectations
Besides, learned long ago – we don’t have the power to make anyone feel anything least of all, sorry.
So I’m not sorry, but maybe if you could just tell me, give me an inkling of what you might need, I can help us out of this hole.
In anticipation of guests, the hostess – always bent on pleasing – carefully selects the script, ascribes roles, envisions an afternoon of light repartee, peppered with philosophical pondering – satisfactory entertainment.
They’re just family, after all, she tells herself, confident in the outcome, fatally smug.
Crowd arriving, she fails to read disinterest in eyes, politely attempts to orchestrate interactions, while they cast about, calculating, shunning protocols of etiquette, dispersing in an unsettling way, then returning, savagely encircling their prey.
They’re just family, after all, she tells herself, panic rising, confusion overriding confidence.
Unprepared to defend herself – bears no arms but the giving type – she ducks, grasps, attempts retreat from the onslaught of vindictive agendas, but the wall of stored grievances, spotlighting a history of injustices, corners her, hopelessness in its wake.
They’re just family, after all, she tells herself, knowing full well the legacy of pain.
It’s friends, in the end, who save her – a surefooted cavalry, bearing the swords of understanding, compassion their war cry – reigning in the once-invited, now betraying guests – objective hearts demanding an end to the fray.
They’re just family, after all, she tells them, tells herself, composure a mere thread.
Tables turned, the offenders now plead for forgiveness, beg for help, pretend the slights were unintentional, harmless, expect their hostess to step over the bloodied and slain bits of herself, and with benevolence, restore her love for them again.
They’re just family, after all, she says weakly, the torn script of her expectations scattered.
(My art, entitled She Stands In the Middle of It All. This poem first appeared May, 2016)
I wake before dawn, drive through blinding snowstorms, if lost, alter course – without faltering – even set out on foot when driving becomes impossible, navigating treacherous snow and ice, for you
So you can get where you need to be So you can succeed I risk it all for you
I keep you by my side so that you will be safe so that I can ensure your arrival
But, I grow weary, and my body won’t go on, and all I ask for is that we rest awhile, so that I can catch my breath
And in that instance, you are gone – no hesitation in your step, no looking back – and when you finally stop to wait for me it is too late…
A barrier has grown between us: like an eight-foot, chain-link fence separating me from protecting you
And you look at me with that glare of exasperation that says: “I should have done it on my own.”
Wait! Wait, I say. This wall may seem insurmountable but I can do it. I can do it; give me time. I’ll just climb to the top. It’ll be easy; you’ll see!
Don’t walk away! Give me one more chance to prove my love. I do it all for you.
(Martyr’s Lament first appeared here in November, 2014. This version is a rewrite. Image my own.)
She’s in the kitchen cleaning, prepping sweetness, wishes
to nurture childlike longings – sugar laden gifts, honeyed chops
hooks her men with culinary preciseness – as legend prescribes
wants a strong, reliable type to stir her ovaries keep her dishing up love
Disappointment, like raw egg drips off china plates – shame of misadventures she cannot scrub away
only serves tea now – the smell of liquor mingled with cigarettes in lecherous calloused hands turns her stomach
avoids the coffee maker in the same way, despises the way the bitter brew makes her head spin – wits need to be in order
has settled now as hostess caters to near strangers whose attention, riveted by television screens, are
lulled by the rhythmic sounds of her sanitizing while stew simmers in pot, dreams of romance shelved.
(Originally titled “Hatched”, this poem first appeared here in July, 2017. I am submitting an edited version for Reena’s Xploration challenge: Stranger in a strange land. Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 