Sunday Morning Series: Summer 2008

One

Without my glasses
I can almost bear to look at you
your dark ringed eyes
filled with some failing hope
your jaw, tightened against the tide
of harshness you want to spew
the skin on your neck falling
like unfolding crepe origami.
Sitting with your folded arms
a picture of benevolence,
belying rising panic
at your world falling apart.
All of it indistinguishable to me
without my glasses.


Two

I move about the kitchen
briskly, smoothly
pans and whisks
flying in my hands
efficient harmony
peeling, chopping
bringing the ingredients
to their knees
in pleasured gratitude.
It is the world I occupy
that occupies and sustains me.
Will anyone in the World
know me when I leave mine
behind?


Three

I bounce around
on hobbled knee
stripping all that
I have known to
be myself
my nose and eyes
running their new
knowledge
into my sleeve
the sofa arm
the towels that cannot
hold it.
And he sits
gazing into the distance
oblivious.


Four

With babies
and toys
and dishes
strewn about
my lonely
landscape
the best help
he could offer
was to stay
out of my way
until dinner
was served, to which
being sufficiently
tender, I could
call him.

And now
awakening,
swimming
through the
mercury
of my discoveries
howling, weeping
I scramble
to find my
true self;
I find myself
scrambling
eggs for breakfast
while he waits
patiently
to be called
to the meal.


Five

I admire, he says,
his heart on his sleeve,
how you write.
How infused must be
that admiration
with the anger
of knowing
that he has inspired
such bile;
an unremitting
cascade
of his denigrations,
even if they are only
from my perspective.


Six/Sex

The day he was served
with divorce papers
in the driveway
he came to our room
and looking perplexed
said, "Does this mean
we can't have sex tonight?"
Things changed
but all things considered
things haven't changed much.


Seven

I take sole custody
of my actions
of my choices
even the one
to be choiceless.
But I cannot
help wonder
if we might
have survived
if you had
stepped off
the bleachers
strode onto the field
gotten into the game
with me
instead of
intermittently
clapping from
the sidelines.


Eight

Other women
other writers
have not had
this easy life
that I endure.
Struggling to
live by their
wits, their work
the klink of coins
in their hands
what they have
earned themselves.
Children thy have
raised
perhaps raising
themselves;
neglected, alone.
Or not having
enough
to eat, to read.
My children, and here
my chest puffs out
with hollow pride,
have lacked nothing
in the pursuit
of their noble causes.
This drowning mother
to whom they reach out
with their strong arms,
rescuing her
from the sulfur.


Nine

When all is said and done
why am I here in the kitchen
struggling to find my true self
amidst dirty dishes
while you go off to meditate
to find your higher self?


Ten

I used to wonder
if watching me imprisoned
by the Patriarchy
(A word I had not learnt)
made my beautiful girl
want only to be with women:
that is what the
Very Smart Psychiatrist said.
Or later, chameleon like
my other beautiful girl
became a miniature you
in defiance of all laws
of nature and probability
to have the entitlements of Men.
But no, they and their sister
come into their own skins
in fearlessness.
I wonder where they get it from.


Eleven

After months of barren
bowls and plates
we sit down to a shared meal.
The feast tastes like ashes
in my mouth
as the possibility raises
its head
that I have starved myself
all year
only to punish him
and watch him suffer.


Twelve

I have done this before
this looking for my lost self
but always with the goal
of getting his interest back
to where it belonged;
arranging myself seductively
on the bed or in the kitchen:
the two battlegrounds for winning a man.
Or so I had heard.
Now I want to know only myself
not the myself who only wanted
to be known only by him.


Thirteen

You are scared
by my wide eyed
wild haired
limping crying self.
I don't care.


Fourteen

To touch him
is to be a traitor to myself;
to comfort or soothe him
is treason punishable by death;
to allow him an iota of humanity
is to add another reason
to the ever lengthening list
of why I should not go.
Instead of just leaving.

Sunday Morning

Sunday morning.
Shouldn't we be
lazy in bed
or in the sun
running our hands
over each other
or on the hot buttered
bread I have baked?
Shouldn't we be
reading the paper
talking about
our brilliant children
cupping cardamom tea
in hands still sweaty from
the bed and the sun?
How dare I ruin it all
trying to find my lost self.

Pegasus

Here he lies:
the mentor of my dreams,
the listener to my weary woes
who knew me well from head to toes
who joined with cheer in all my schemes
and needed no good-byes.

No more will I ride him, safe and free
nor see him jump the fences high;
nor feel his hide, taut, under my palm.
I cannot cry, he taught me calm
and left me with a sigh
to find rest under his favorite tree.

No longer will I smell the sweetness of him,
no longer sense the thrill of touching
fleeting boughs;
nor stray to see the twilight on his back,
nor feed him extra oats in his gunny sack,
nor run him after unresisting cows,
nor let him follow all his heartly whims.

No more will the sunshine play hide and seek
on his shining coat of black
nor the sweat drops glisten bright
on his forehead star of white
nor his breath go in and back
though of him his stall will speak.

Will he have enough to eat, I wonder
where he's gone had better be warm
'cause he's left his Christmas blanket behind.
And I hope his stable boys are kind
enough to shield him from heavenly storms
‘cause I hear it's from up there
that raging storms to earth wander.

Life without him I can't fathom
though Mama says I'll get over
losses like these that death demands,
life of me my life commands.
And she says she'll get me Rover
but a dog would only be his phantom.

*****
His memory haunts me now and then
I've tried to teach my children, too
to love all creatures like their own
and not to fear the grave unknown
to cherish life and help the few
whose life depends on them.

Two from 1991 When Juhi fell Asleep

When heart are broken
and loving stains the bed
volumes are spoken
yet all is left unsaid.


Turn, turn, and bring me all the fruit
of patient waiting, of unbecoming truth
of lying awake in youths unending nights
of justice measured in wronging every right.