I never figured out
how to get along with
my mother, and now
despite my intentions,
I fear I travel that same 
road with my child.
People tell me she is
just on a journey and
will return. But lately,
I catch glimpses:
my dead mother
grinning at me in
the rear view mirror,
her arms reaching
around the seat to
pinch my guts
between her
angry fingers.

Fault lines

He moved close, he pulled me tightly to him.
He wanted me to know I had done a good job.
And then he wanted to know, could he kiss me for it?

He was not holding a weapon.
He asked for permission.
We were standing in the office hallway.

Another man asked to accompany me back to the hotel after work.
It was late, a foreign city, so I agreed.
He demanded a kiss – “it’s what the Europeans do.”

He didn’t have a gun to my head.
Security guards were posted nearby.
We were in the busy well-lit hotel lobby.

And still, I didn’t feel I could say no.
Instead, I thought: I need a new job.
Instead, I thought: my fault.


note to world #2929

She was always among the last to find out about anything new or hip.

For a long time, she blamed it on her geographic location – middle of the country sort of thing.  But as she got older, moved around, traveled, had children – there was really no excuse – not age, not proximity, nothing.  She just wasn’t that interested in being at the leading edge of things.  She preferred to be the end in trend.

note to world #2225

Today she walked around feeling she has so far lived a life deferred.

Not even interrupted, like the title of that movie or book or painting, depending on your artistic bent – just a bunch of delayed gratification – and for long stretches of time, minus even the gratification part.

When would she give herself permission to be really alive ?