In Humanity
The door was opened,
no one knows by whom,
when or even why,
but so it remains,
allowing access
to the spiritual.
Had we forgotten,
distracted ourselves,
we may have survived.
Alas, we're all flawed,
easily mastered
by depravity.
Brutal, "I love you,"
hours of neglect
and all the grooming
have had a hand
in my decision
to become humane.
This Savage Love
“I’ve booked an appointment for you at the clinic in Baltimore. Here’s the address. You have two days to get there. Don’t be late, and don’t change your mind,” My dance agent, Angel, spat at me tersely, handing me a slip of her designer notepaper before dismissing me.
The road in front of me would be impossible if I kept the baby, I thought. My livelihood depended upon a slim, healthy, not-pregnant body. In two or three months, I wouldn’t be able to waddle onto a stage in my condition; plus, I was working in Canada on a visa and had no health care or permanent place of residence.
Angel had convinced me getting an abortion was the most sensible thing to do, especially considering the father wanted nothing to do with us and had even forgotten how to speak English when I gave him the news. He spoke English fine six weeks ago when he was trying to get me into his bed. Maybe that’s all the English he knew. It didn’t matter. I only called him because I felt a man should know.
I left Angel’s office on Queen Street and wound my way through the streets of Toronto to the QEW, just barely missing an accident in a one-way tunnel that some idiot thought was two-way. The idiot was me, and I had to pull into a parking lot to catch my breath, wipe my eyes, and slow my heart rate before setting off again. I was not in the best emotional shape for this long, shameful trip that was going to end in death for one of us.
Catholicism was firmly in my past, being a stripper and all. Perhaps my old religion was haunting me as I contemplated ending this tiny life. Or maybe it was the fear of a medical procedure, which I was certain would involve a needle or needles. Whatever it was, my mind spun out of control during the scary fifteen-hour drive. Between finding myself lost most of the time and being horrified about what they would do to me when I reached my destination, I’m surprised I didn’t have a stroke or seizure of some kind.
It was just past dawn on Tuesday morning when I pulled in front of a rundown, nondescript brownstone building with no signage other than street numbers that matched the paper Angel had given me. Bottles in brown paper bags littered the sidewalk leading up to the building, and hungover street people leaned against adjacent buildings, sleeping it off. Instinctively, I locked all the doors and kept the motor running. No way was I walking to that building until signs of life appeared through the filthy windows or staff began to show up.
Perhaps I prayed during that time. I can’t remember. I do remember suddenly feeling protective of the little intruder inside of me. Before that morning, “the baby” was simply a phrase, as was pregnant or pregnancy. It was a thing. A condition. It somehow did not relate to me at all. That day changed my definition of what ailed me. I was pregnant. I would be having a baby. A baby was a miracle. Something I had no right to interfere with. I thought, ‘ I wouldn’t even use the restroom in that building. Do I really want to climb up on their germy operating table and let them take this baby out of me here? What a horrible place for a baby to die.’
No way. Just no way. I couldn’t get away from there fast enough as I backtracked through the neglected neighborhood and found my way to Route 81 North. That’s the day I became a mother for the first time. Not the moment of conception. Not the day I received the results of the pregnancy test. Motherhood for me began when the primal urge to protect my child awakened within me. That sacred connection prompts a fierce, savage type of love stronger than the love of a friend or romantic love, no matter how intense. Nothing compares with the love of a mother for her children.
This ravaging love would put me to the test, time after time. Plumbing the depths of my soul and challenging my courage, tenacity, and emotional strength. Then, eventually, it would shatter me, leaving me to crawl blindly through the grey morass of depression, searching for a reason to live.
Love can do that to a person.
Meet Up
she came into
the bar, ordered
a double shot
of tequila
told me
she had just come
from an AA meeting
she was lonely
it was written on her face
the way she swayed and
seemed tolerant
to almost anything
that I could possibly say
she was excited to meet me
said her AA group
was routing her on
to make a new friend
and then she launched into
how she had lost custody
of her two daughters,
because she had beat up her husband
we went to a new bar and
she told me that out back,
she had pummeled a girl so bad
that the pictures of the bruises
were being used against her in
her custody trial
I couldn't say anything back
to her, it was too ratchet
she seemed so sweet
until the stories came out to be
something completely
off kilter
sometimes meeting new people
is fascinating and
here I was, thinking I'd be weird
or make her uncomfortable
by being myself
but she had won
this round, with really
no applause
Take Away
I've seen faces
caked with addiction
laced with too
many prescriptions
they say
"what doesn't kill you"
but all I saw was
broken homes and fried
temporal lobes
one woman's tears
were so violent
she shook with them
her face red and swollen
she had had
electric shock treatment
and another woman
had too, her anxiety
consuming the stagnant
air of the treatment center
like a match lit
in a room full of gaseous fumes
it's never easy
these solutions to
our mental health problems
we need more time
to overcome them
sometimes sitting in chairs
next to veterans
wives and daughters
addicts and depressives
the collateral victims
telling our truth
shouting while saying nothing
the words we hold back
are often the ones
that come out anyway
in bodily harm
or at the bottom
of a bottle of scotch
we need more time
to process
our trauma
and make a new way
decisions that
add instead of
taking away
The Color of Trees
I was born into a world devoid of color, one that people spoke about with such ardor and emotion all the time. For years, smells, sounds, and sensations more than colors molded my reality. I never thought of trees as green; instead, they were the rough bark beneath my fingertips, the sound of leaves rustling in the wind, and the smell of the dirt after a rainstorm. Sensations, vivid in their own special ways, filled my mind as it painted the globe.
Then, a method that promised sight but was experimental and full of unknowns, proved to be the breakthrough. I had never heard of the very concept. What did the word "see" mean? My family was quite supportive of my decision to get the operation, full of cautious hope. The appeal of seeing the world through the eyes of others was too strong to refuse, even though the hazards were enormous.
A cocoon of anticipation and dread surrounded recovery. My eyes were shielded from the new world that awaited me by bandages. It was like a fresh start the day they were taken out. The light in the room was dazzling, overwhelming in its intensity. I squinted against the light, amazement and tears blending together.
Green was the first color I really noticed. The rich, vivid green of the trees beyond the hospital window, not just any green. It was not at all what I had anticipated. Its depth and beauty could not be adequately conveyed by words or descriptions. Above was the sky, an endless blue expanse that served as a canvas for the sun's golden rays. I was enthralled, lost in the freshness of the hues, as each one made a long-lost friend acquaintance with me.
My world has changed from being characterized by darkness to a rainbow of hues. I could not stop staring at objects that I had previously only touched or smelled for hours. Flowers were amazing, with their delicate petals and enticing scents. My perception of the world was expanded by the pairing of colors with the familiar textures.
But my heart was won over by the trees. I strolled amidst them, caressing their trunks, realizing now what hue complemented the coarse bark. A visual symphony, the leaves danced in a variety of shades of green in the light breeze. At that moment, I realized that trees were living, breathing creatures as well as physical objects—each one a magnificent work of nature.
I had a ravenous curiosity that led me to explore the world as the days stretched into weeks and the weeks into months. The sensation of being able to see clearly prompted feelings of responsibility and deep thankfulness. I witnessed the earth's vulnerability in addition to its beauty. I had no idea that colors could represent the state of the earth and its suffering.
I started to promote the preservation of nature, bringing attention to the problems we were facing with the environment by utilizing my distinct viewpoint. My efforts were centered around the trees and their array of green hues. I discussed their significance as priceless pieces of art that enhanced our planet, in addition to serving as wildlife refuges and oxygen sources.
More than just a personal transformation, my journey from darkness to light served as a call to action. Trees' vibrant, living colors served as a constant reminder to me of the beauty that is worthy of striving for. My image of a world where nature is valued, conserved, and allowed to thrive emerged when I gained the ability to see.
The true color of trees is not just green, as I discover as I stand beneath the canopy of a towering oak, its leaves whispering secrets in a language of rustles and sighs. It is a symbol of the tenacity and splendor of the natural world, and the color of life itself. And it's nothing short of astounding for someone who never saw before.
7-Eleven Cighartha
Buddha downed his Big Gulp in
two mighty sips as I, cretinous
creature of line end, dug madly
for crumpled bills and change,
change, and the Buddha said,
“The trouble with you is,”
and he snapped into his
Slim Jim for dramatic emphasis,
no doubt, leaving me—
who had so recently struggled,
cosmically, with forces so great as
Starbucks and the Arizona Iced
Tea Company and their warring armies of
flavors—leaving me
to madlib his profundity with troubles
(stupidity, sloth, an
indifferent God, parking violations)
too many to name, hanging
on his words while the
register ceased to ring and the
Slurpees ceased to melt, until,
“the trouble with you is,
you think you have time,”
the Buddha said, smiling
beatifically, paunch sagging free,
“motherfucker, time has you.”
If you name it, then it exists
I keep trying to reframe
Time.
Figure out why it matters.
And of course, it's regret that demands an answer.
Time is yet another construct
For us to attempt to alter.
To go back, change the horrors,
To fix Now.
Leap forward,
Find the flaws,
Jump back
To fix Now.
To create Utopia.
The problem is,
We think it's all about us.
That space and time should move in accordance to personally right the wrongs.
But we have yet so much to learn,
A pause we need to learn to take,
Some thought before we create in haste.
The time you will never be enough
If you are looking behind you,
Or too far ahead.
There will only be enough time
When you understand that
This is Now.
This is It.
This is the only chance you will ever get to be right here, right now.
Use your Now
wisely.
Time
I thought I had time,
time to get over it, get over you, over the guilt, over my fears.
Over my dreams.
I thought I had time,
time to find purpose.
To be a part of the solution, to be a voice, to be the change.
I thought I had time,
to get back to school, learn a thing or two or three,
make a difference in this society.
I thought I had time,
to spend with my Dad.
To heal, to mend. To be a better daughter.
I thought I had all this time,
to run into you, to fall in love again.
But I spent all this time
thinking I had time
and now I waste time
realizing I've run out of time
instead of maximizing my time.
And now I pass a lot of time
counting time
and doing the math
to figure out
just how much time I really have left.