

Cloud Walking Tea
Lover,
In the echoes of victory, I hear your name
argue with its hubris as your sly nobility
lingers about the isle- the
Worldly Prince's poor disguise.
Ancient glances catch across the glass
and conjure crows along the gateway
Secret Muse, softly dreaming
in the quiet shame of midnight.
With the wisdom of a century,
I pour your cup into mine, and
crown thee King, our Royal Majesty
of Passion and its impish woes.
Chain Smoker
A puff. Exhale. Then another puff. She frowned at the smoke trailing off into the stars.
"I thought you quit."
"I quit for three whole weeks."
"World record."
He rolled his eyes and threw his cigarette into the dead bush nearby.
"Happy?"
"You didn't put it out."
"I didn't put it out."
"Ricky, that's basically dry brush-"
"Relax. It's supposed to rain or something. It's late. Morning dew will get it. I'll even piss on it if that'll make you happy. You worry too much, Ser."
A small, pathetic wail came from inside the house. Ricky, moving past his long-time girlfriend, pulled open the screen door. As he walked inside, he wailed loudly, mimicking the tone and cadence of his son. Serevina rushed in behind him, ready to tend to the newborn.
"Relax. I got it."
"Are you sur-"
"Ser. Sit down. Have a drink. There's beer in the fridge if you want one."
"Did you wash your hands?"
Ricky, unresponsive, headed up the stairs into their son's room. Serevina sat on the couch staring into the darkness of the stairway, eavesdropping on Ricky's interactions with the newborn. After a moment, Ricky left the nursery and wordlessly swaggered to his girlfriend's bedroom. Serevina waited to hear the thud of Ricky's body onto the mattress and then followed his steps into the nursery.
As if on cue, the infant heard his mother's gait and wiggled within the tightness of his swaddle. RJ spat out his pacifier, chewing on his hand in between soft, desperate grunts. Serevina lifted her son from his bassinet, took a seat in a chair on the other side of the room and guided the baby to her breast.
As Ricky Jr. nursed, Serevina craned down her neck to kiss his head. Mixed in with the inexplicable sweetness of infancy was a touch of lavender lotion and the unmistakable stink of discount cigarettes.
And yet, nature does not rush
The season of growth moves us all
rapidly, slowly, sometimes
a little at first then maybe a lot
The sickening lurch of death subsides
and we rise, and rise, and rise again
taking toward the late March sun
And as the petals open, dreamy and aloof
Father Time convenes with Mother Earth
Old lovers, sharing a wink and a smile
Holidays
My daughter's birthday is near Easter. Her NICU stay ended around my birthday, which is Prince's birthday. My husband, Halloween. My son, Valentine's Day. Christmas, when my in-laws split (temporarily). Memorial Day, when mine did the same (permanently).
Days created for other reasons. Days for other days. Days of secret celebration. Days for private funerals in the darkness of the hillside.
Today, I've decided, is a special day, a celebration of clarity. Of bliss. A day to sit with everything.
A day that is a gift from God, not to me, but to the Reaper.
I watch their exchange, smiling.
Redcheeks
I came into this world two days late, mad as hell. My parents were nine years too far into their marriage. My mom was two years from an overdose attempt and my father, five years from a decade-long disappearance.
My grandfather-- who would later assume my dad's role-- had the quirk of nicknaming all the babies born into the family. Sometimes it took a while, as he needed time to reflect on looks, personality, and memorable moments. Then he would christen them with whatever he found fitting. But mine came in an instant. As I screeched in my mother's arms, wailing in protest, nostalgic for the void, her father pulled me into his age-spotted arms and I settled, growing silent in his embrace.
I like to think that my soul recognized his, that there was some part of me that carried an innate knowing of the traits we shared. But that's a story for another chapter. If you're the skeptical type, then it's a tall tale for another time. My Papa looked at me, and I looked at him, face still flushed with the remnants of my tantrum. On that Tuesday afternoon in the late Southern spring, my nickname chose itself.
Screaming Redcheeks.
Papa was the only one who called me this, and usually shortened it to Redcheeks, rarely calling me by my given name. There was even a paint stick with SCREAMING REDCHEEKS scrawled onto it with a fat-tipped Sharpie, kept atop the china cabinet for the days in which I lived up to my namesake. My tantrums became expected, routine even. I was set off by nearly everything, even trivial matters like the dog not listening or an especially tricky level of a computer game. I was (still am) argumentative and questioned the validity and authority of everyone and everything.
With my history, I find it strange that others describe me as calm or stoic. I was noted as being a polite, intelligent, and motivated child, though that sentiment decreased dramatically in my teens. Anytime I'm complimented on my nature, a montage of screaming fits, unfeeling language, and brazen manipulation flashes through my mind. I think of the year I smashed all the Christmas ornaments during a tantrum, or the time I threw a dining room chair at my mother. I see my children's worried faces and my patterns repeated within them. Then plays a vision of my marriage on the rocks, with my husband wavering on the cliffside, peering into the depths of Irreconcilable Differences.
My temperament breathes in dualities. There's a consistent ebb and flow, tempestuous currents of mood and mentality. There is understanding betrothed to denial. Warm embraces are frozen in a duel with cold calculation. Within hope lives hopelessness. In the absence of mania, comes depression.
I am Screaming Redcheeks. I am Marissa Wolfe.
Somewhere, within the gray of black-white polarities, there have been touches of silver that slow the pendulum just enough to offer glimpses of what healthy, happy, and hopeful looks like. Just enough to strive for. Just enough to snap the paint stick and depart from the path of rage. Anger is birthed from sadness. Sadness is birthed from pain. Pain roots itself, unyielding, into the grooves of the brain and chokes out the chambers of the heart.
And yet, it has been my greatest teacher. My greatest motivator.
The flame-soaked phoenix wails to the heavens, wondering why she's been forsaken, but within her scattered ashes is the chance to start anew. She reforms, entrenched in her cycles, and cries a different song, more knowing than the one before.
Slashed legs, sleeping pills, a river, and an oven
There's a familiar back and forth,
at the same age, same situation
A reflection casting backward
into the frost encrusted months
of nineteen-sixty-three
Somber eyes that watch chipped polish
trace the texture of a belt,
test its strength
From the past, she stares, for
she knows the story--
she wrote it herself, once
(and once is all you need, if you're good at crafting tales)
--and though she whispers that
some stories should not be told,
these Plathlike machinations
are owl's talons that crush
the whimpering heart
Crayola Bricks
"Did you know that someone wrote "Fuck you all" on that brick up there?"
The nurse followed my finger up to a shockingly high point on the brick pillar to our right, scanned the waxy scrawling, and let out a heavy sigh.
"Yeah, there's some crazy stuff up there." She pointed her pen toward the bulky brick pillars scattered through the common room. You'll see a lot of it around here. Some people even write their actual names and phone numbers."
"I did see a good joke over there." I pointed to the pillar on our left and read the words out loud. "What's the difference between a dirty bus stop and a lobster with breast implants? One's a crusty bus station and the other's a busty crustacean."
The nurse and I shared a gentle laugh and reflected on creative, damaged minds, as if we were strangers making small talk. This was just another day at the office for her. I shared a similar sentiment. She opened up a red folder and slid it across the plastic table.
"This is a copy of everything that you've signed so far and just some general information about how we do things here. There are some personal items that you weren't allowed to keep, which you'll sign off on later. We have your valuables locked in a safe in the administrative office and if you need access to your personal items, you'll have to ask one of the nurses. You're not allowed to have your phone, but you are free to write down a few numbers out of it We did have to take your bra, because of the underwire, but you can have someone bring you clothes or anything else you need starting tomorrow. "
The nurse pointed to a highlighted four digit number on one of the sheets inside the folder.
"This is your code, okay? So anyone who wants to call you here and check on you has to have this code. This is the number for the nurse's station. The phones are shut off during group and mealtimes because we want to encourage you to go. They're turned off around 9:30 at night and are turned back on at 7:30 in the morning. "
She turned her attention to the smartwatch on her wrist and then peered over my shoulder at the plexiglass encased office in the middle of the open room.
"Looks like it's time shift change. Do you have any questions for me?"
"Do you guys have snacks or something? I haven't eaten since about 10." It was 7:30 at night. Now that I'd calmed down, my appetite had returned.
"We might actually have a plate leftover from dinner. Let me check with one of the girls and see if we've got something for you. Go ahead and have a seat over here." She gestured to a a grouping of tables and chairs nestled in front of a large flat-screen TV encased in a heavy-duty plastic shell.
I struggled to pull a chair from underneath the table. The nurse said all the chairs were weighted, so that they couldn't be thrown. The first of many reminders as to where I would be for the next four days. She said goodbye, and that I would probably see her again in a couple soon. She walked away, sneakers squeaking across the grungy tile and I shifted uncomfortably in the weighted chair, exhausted and vulnerable, my armor cracking further with each passing minute.
sin-eater
hunched
in the corner of a room,
in shack just north
of the highest mountain
on a lush hill, that hill
the one square within
the eye of god
gnashing
wiping crumbs from whiskers
alternates, gulps wines, continues
the bodies bake in the heat
the pungencies draw near
the lord's leering gaze
weeping
the woman in black
hair pinned to her crown
sweeps coins from eyes
mumbles words unknown
receding
the eater chases wealth
into the darkened valley
diminished by His watch
The Jewelry Set
It was not quite an ouroboros.
Two birds, linked at the tails, pouring into one another, an ebb and a flow, a yin and yang, the holy messengers of the shifting tides of infinitude. They knew, they forgot, they smiled, and wept. But yet, it was all the same. What has been, will be, pacing footprints destined to become fixtures of the sand.
I slip the ring onto my finger--perfect fit-- and drape the chain around my neck. The earrings catch the lamplight, and the bracelet sings quietly against my wrist.
I lose myself in zirconia and colored glass, fellow fixture of the sand. I will be, I have been, I am, forever linked into the shifting tide.
Mother’s Day
I'd been there two days, already,
there were two more to come,
and made pictures for the other moms
Flowers in crayon and marker,
for each small face beyond the courtyard
They'd smile, nod, sharing themselves through sunken eyes
But that was the afternoon.
In the morning,
I spiraled.
Looking out of a frosted window,
wondering what the phoenix knows of death, if she remembers rebirth
Envious of the sun, how it warms the leaves.
I turned a blurry eye
to the workbook the doctors said would help-- not more than the meds, but enough, sure--
Halting whirlpools, the best I could
I thought sisters who wore their broken crowns in withered weeds
the eager maiden, the defeated mother, the bitter crone,
and smashed felt-tip letters into tiny boxes
I breathe,
reset,
and realize.
It was them, those two
that slid knives through peppers
instead of thumping veins
and slid potatoes into the oven instead of my tear-streaked face
Two lives, entangled into mine,
Miraculous eyes that study me, as I study theirs, reflections of what came before and what lies ahead
Linked through unconditional cords, formed into inquisitive structures
If I am the reason for them, they are the reason for me