The poems that follow I wrote with Guy in mind when he was still in my life. Now that I have no lover, I wonder if I will make one up and continue to write love poems. An imaginary lover would certainly cause me no grief, unless of course I imagined he did. Ha. My intention is to have no lover in my life for a long time. I need time to just chill, as my niece would say. I toast to “chill in.” I can do this.
She doesn’t know how the drapes came to be zippered shut. But they did. And locked. His light got tied behind his ears. The ball cap helped keep it in place. So when she met him that day for lunch, she was blind to the beauty he offered. No light pushed the sounds of love forward onto her plate of food. The meat was tough and the barbarian within signaled to her to take it into her own hands. Bite hard and pull ferociously at what remains outside the mouth. Just yesterday she accused him with small words of cheating. He assured her with bigger words that was not the truth. At lunch it became all too much and he cried tears onto wilted lettuce. They left for home without eating, her hand in his. She doesn’t know how the drapes came to be open.In tender light she lifted her skirt and invited him to come home.
The sun has not dreamt itself awake, yet. Nor do I hear through the open window the excited nature of birds announcing dawn.
The microwave has quit its pulse. I hear you pull your bowl of oatmeal from its stomach the other side of the bedroom door. As with most mornings, I stretch my body the length of the horizon across the bed. Somewhere in the dark are the little dogs. I imagine their eyes open to the soft dark as mine are, wonder which God they embrace instinctively upon awakening. Breeze flutters through the window, stories my shin.
You crack the door, whisper “I love you” knowing I hear, knowing I pretend sleep, knowing you won’t resist that first impulse to tickle the arch of my foot…..you don’t . I laugh. Time pauses. And then there are birds, always birds.
There is a box of crayons dumped across my redwood table. Fifty choices of color. I choose magenta because I can make the word magnet out of its name. I need a magnet this morning to keep me in my desk chair and keep me honest. Honest looks like the two quarters it takes to wash my clothes, and then the two quarters it takes to dry my clothes. Honest is me loving my kittens by scratching their bellies, and me thanking Grams for bringing me a dead cockroach. Yes, I have a cockroach in my house that is now deceased. Disgusting.
I didn’t wake up and do cardio this morning at the gym. I wanted to wake up and write…two hours ago. I hit the snooze way too many times. Morning is always thick. Like wading through mud, forgetting the fact that the mud can be rejuvenating. I have never had a mud bath. I think of it as being too messy rather than life giving. Love can be messy, but I do invite it into my life.
Love is not messy today. It is a jingle in my head that repeats over and over again. It is the magenta crayon. I can color in a circle, deep color. A square is more formal, as is a rectangle. A triangle, though nicely pointed, does not suit me today. It is the circle in all its endlessness that catches my eye. Today, I remember that love is not a minimum of two glasses of water but rather a faucet turned on indefinitely. I have no water bill. There is no cost. I will not iron my pants today, but will revel in the design of wrinkles. A friend tells me I use too many metaphors. I can’t help myself today. Just like a glass of chocolate milk is sweeter than a regular glass of milk, I seek that perfect moment in writing where all is love.
It is good to feel alive, and good to feel well. I am glad Guy is not around when I wake up. I’m grouchy before my first two cups of coffee.
excerpt from Mind Without a Home
I want what lies beneath my madness. It is warm there. Thick there. Strong there. It is a place where Guy can rest his weary head on my shoulder, nestling into my long curls. I want the time I touch Guy to always be electric and new. This can be as long as my heart pumps blood to my mind, reminding me that madness is just a temporary thing. Whipped cream on coffee can be skimmed off, leaving coffee full and warm. Guy visits me where the birds dance hearts in the air above. Love and happiness lace my bones like liquor soaking cake.
Would I really tell you I wasn’t well if I wasn’t. Yes. Guaranteed. So, let’s talk about breakfast. I once had a friend tell me that he treated himself with a Frappacino every morning, and doing this helped get him out of bed in the morning. Well, I have a plain bagel smothered in butter and sugar free orange marmalade! I love it and look forward to it. Oh, and of course there is always coffee. Always coffee.
In the psychosis of a dark mind, strong lights shouldn’t have to stay dim. This has been a challenge for my prescribing psychiatrists; they have to lessen my impaired thinking without squelching the fire within that drives me. Often times, I think medication prevents me from writing at the depth I wish to write. I have to be reminded that I can’t write at all when claimed by psychosis. I don’t envy the doctors’ positions. I’m just glad that, over the years, I have had doctors that really listen to me, who don’t want to medicate me to numbness, but seek to allow vitality to burn free, also.