Happy National Woman’s Day

Girls are not machines

that you put kindness coins into

And sex falls out” — Sylvia Plath

We’re more like the crane games

on a Jersey Shore boardwalk 

Hands maneuver our hands 

towards visible prizes

and treasures hidden in plastic shells. 

If what we have for grabs is too heavy

the plushness slips through fingers, 

weakened and rigged by the deceit of others. 

Still, these hands keep rolling quarters of promises 

into our waiting gaps, 

the lights and sounds fill the quiet, dark 

corners where we like to hide, waiting to see 

how hard this one and that one will try 

to catch our IPod hearts with irascible playlists – 

to win our unicorns stuffed with everything  

nobody else wants to know.

Muses 10 through 18

Muse 10 allows 

for that amazing voice 

in the shower. 

11 helps that same voice 

bounce beautifully 

off gravestones. 

Muse 12 dries your eyes 

after a too-big glob of wasabi 

or a too-hot shot of saki. 

13 is the impossibly long wait 

for coffee in the morning 

that makes you miss the multicar 

pile-up on the interstate. 

She’s the extra dead rose 

hidden in his “forgive me” dozen.

14 gives you the years 

you get with your dog or grandparents.

15 hits you with thirteen’s thorns 

for wasting that time. 

16 builds up your walls 

and shapes your wrecking balls 

that crumble them. 

17 helps break the news gently 

when all you want is to be alone. 

18 pummels you with sixteen’s wrecking ball

when you think you need permission.

Driving to the edge of water – part of 10 & 2 – poems about drive

He called me a fucking idiot that night,

And I didn’t start screaming like the day

I told my father I hated him after calling me brain dead

for locking him out of the house.

I vowed that anyone who insulted my intelligence

would be pierced with arrows tipped with a venomous glaze,

never forgiven,

and I didn’t want to forgive my father back then.

I wanted to forgive the man I was about to marry.

And I did.

But not before I drove to nowhere,

debating whether to stay at a hotel

or sit in a bar until anything with a pulse

agreed to take me to more nowheres.

I left my wallet at home.

Could have gone to a friends’ house

and let them see what I refused to look for.

Instead I ended up parking in front of an abandoned pool

on the opposite side of my complex.

Staring at the tufts of grass and weeds breaking through

the concrete, and the chipped, pale blue of the pool’s floor,

I saw a child run then fall and skin her knee.

I saw her dive as if she glided into a life

where algae only grows where you can’t see it,

The water is the right temperature

for the hot or cold of the day,

the concrete leaves your face unscathed

when you swim too far down with eyes closed.

Her eyes closed mine and I wondered

why I stopped diving the way I did.

Why now do I leap head first

into empty pools of shit I’ll never change?

Why do I swan

right into what compassionately turns me

into flayed skin and ashes?

I should have kept driving until I hit the beach,

let the weeds of my mind entwine

with clouds of seafoam freedom.

Doors

DoorsDoors 

Every door that opens 

may release another you.

          Maybe another victory. 

          another failure 

          another chance 

          or another 

          empty barrel 

Every door that closes 

may block,

           The kisses 

           or the tears 

           the laughing 

           or the screaming 

           the fire or the ice. 

But either way 

every closed door has some sort of window

as thin as insect wings. 

Every open door has some form of light,

allowing all that is good 

and all that hurts to fuse together 

into what we like to call Fall or Spring.