Saturday, November 21, 2015

A Night Visitor

Oh, yes! I hear you tapping at my window
Beckoning me closer 
A cool breath of impulsivity on my cheek
Tonight’s a nice night for a flight you purr.
Open the window. Dance in the stardust, my angel.
But we both know
You have all the subtlety of a Sylvia Plath novel. 
And this will end like all your other attempts—
Silenced by the dagger of my pen against your throat
Branding my defiance into the pages of your jugular: 
Dum vita est spes est!
So, come another night if you must
Entice me with belladonna’s perfume.
Enchant me with a melancholic dissonance. 
But all these gimmicks are simply 
Sequins in a tawdry floor show.
They do not stupefy or overpower me. 
You are missing the true magic:
A heart that pounds
Lungs that rise and fall in an orchestrated rhythm 
Ears that delight in children’s laughter
A nose that awaits freshly baked cookies.
You are outdone. You are outnumbered,
In this body, life abounds.
And where there is life, 
There is so much hope!

Friday, October 30, 2015


Oh my vita
To dine upon your skin
Tasting every honey dew dropped morsel of sweat 
That forges on your chest
Let me love you in Orlando
Taking flight through crisp waters
And broken waves
Making love upon bright beaches.

Ours was a gray kind of love
Seeping it's way past social morale or religious doctrine
Into the sand that wedged it's way between toes of ambiguity

With every biting crest
You relinquish sighs of guilt 
Into my lungs
And let me sustain you
With breaths of approbation

This sacred dance
Of flesh and spirit becoming one
Intertwined notes shaping our immortal symphony
We are music
We are the words carving Shakespeare’s sonnets
We are the the culmination of all that is pure and whole and holy

Let me be the voice to your quavering song 
Let me be the wine upon your barren lips
Taste me
Consume me

Shatter me.

Friday, July 3, 2015

The Bitch is Back

The bitch is back. Yes, that's right--my nemesis. She must have seen the bumper sticker, "ya'll can go to hell, I'm goin' to Texas," and decided it would be a nice vacation spot-- heat and all. I thought I may have heard her calling my name in the distant rumbling of thunder last week, but convinced myself it was simple paranoia. For a moment, I caught a glimpse of her insignia, like Zoro, burned out in the grass near my apartment. But, I turned my head for a second glance...and poof! It was gone. So, I thought nothing of it. Even, last week, when my husband's brakes went out, my dog was covered in infectious spots, and my son had an asthma attack all on the same day-- I just chalked it up to a rough one. I mean, everyone has those, right? However, when I walked into my new apartment this week, only to find the laundry room leaking water from a broken pipe, walls infested with mold and a bipolar air conditioning unit that couldn't decide between hot or cold air, I began to see her fingerprints everywhere.  Now I am certain she has come back like Lex Luthor on the heels of Superman, intent on nothing but my total destruction.  But I'm sorry. This week I'm not in the mood to play. This week, she has met her match. So wherever you are, Murphy Law, I hope you're ready. You're vacation's getting cut short. 'Cause, girl, I'm sending you straight back to hell!

Thursday, April 2, 2015

Beauty From Injury

I awoke in a dizzied blur, aware of nothing but searing pain and a tube lodged awkwardly down my throat. Unable to speak, tears burned my cheeks, as I played a sadistic game of charades with the nurse keeping guard over me. “What do you want, honey?” Her voice was saccharine. I gestured toward the tube. She replied, “I’m sorry, but I can’t take it out. It’s helping you breathe.” My eyes released a flood. At that moment, I didn’t give a rip about breathing; I only wanted the pain to stop…anyway possible. 

Life coaches will remind their clients, to “stay present”. I truthfully had never really thought about or experienced that level of consciousness, until this point in time. I was definitely fully present, in this moment; and believe me, there was nothing I wouldn’t give to be a million miles away from here, soaking in the euphoric drip of morphine. Instead, the recently stitched up tear in my esophagus was made irate by a ribbed piece of plastic parked haphazardly on the fresh wound.

Only a week earlier, my orthopedic surgeon had made an egregious mistake while performing a double-level cervical fusion on my spine. At some point during the surgery, his scalpel slipped, tearing a large hole in my esophagus. This wasn’t realized until a week later, when I appeared miserably in the ER, with green, gravy-like pus oozing from my suture site.

I was filled with infection and a gaping hole in my throat when they rushed me into surgery to try their hardest to remedy the mistake.  This traumatic event turned into a six month process of hard-core antibiotics, being fed through a tube in my chest,  restless nights terrorized by nightmares of dying, and at last…recovery.

I’m not so sure, whether staying present was a positive in this case. In moments where I focused on my present circumstances, fear eroded my mind. Yet, when I was able to step outside of that pain and focus on a future where this one traumatic event was given a positive purpose, then I began to thrive.
I know everyone has trauma in his or her life. But perhaps it is in that pain, our stories can be shared, honestly, without playing emotional-charades. In this place of vulnerability, we feel understood, and genuine human connection can occur. This is where beauty and true art emerge.

Wednesday, February 11, 2015

Comfortably Numb (a work in progress)

I remember the day clearly.

My hands fell flat against the cold, opaque pane of glass. Drops of condensation wept beneath them -- an action I couldn't bring myself to do. Perhaps, my hands spared me the duty. In the kitchen, pastries, lemonade, and a cake made themselves awkward guests on our kitchen counter-- an eery way of feigning happiness. They stood out, almost a joke, amidst the swatches of dark fabric filling the room-- except for my mother of course.

 She, drew everyone's eye in her vibrant, red, A-line dress. Her breasts struggled to stay inside the black, lace boundary that contained them. It was my father's favorite dress, undoubtably for this very reason. Mamacita, I remember him whispering into her ear as he would slowly kiss the back of her neck, running his hands down the lines of her body, enveloping her waist like a glove. Ooh, gross! I would turn my head, pretending to be embarrassed by the affection. But secretly I loved it, and would give anything in the world to see that sight at this moment--to simply put an end to all of this.

My mother informed the guests to follow suit with her color choice. Dress in color, celebrating his life. It's what he would have wanted, she smiled through the tears of every phone call she madeAfter about the fifth call, I ran upstairs and pulled the covers over my head, knowing at any moment my father would walk through that door and all this nonsense would be over. Only a couple of people complied with my mother's wishes of vibrancy. Most, however, fell in line with old Catholic tradition. This, however, didn't seem to sway my mother. She kept to her script.

She was comfortable with scripts. Every evening before tucking me in she would tell me a story of a beautiful female angel who fell in love with a mortal male. The day came when it was her beloved's time to die. She cried out for God to save him, refusing her heavenly duty of escorting him to the other side. God answered her prayer, but at a heavy price. She was cast from heaven and made human, never more to use her gifts of the heavenly realm. However for her, it was worth the sacrifice--the promise of growing old wrapped in her beloved's arms, exploring the Earth hand in hand.

The night my mother told me the news of the explosion, I had a dream she was that angel -- sacrificing herself for my father.

She had ended each of our nightly sessions with a lullaby she had crafted only for me. Now this is our secret song, she warned me with a lovely warmth to her voice. Don't sing it to anyone else. Not even daddy. I curled my pinky around hers and she kissed it gently, sealing the promise.

Today I broke that promise. Like a dog waiting for its owner's return, I pressed my face against the window by the front door, whispering the lyrics she taught me under my breath. I pictured myself curled up beside my father, singing him our lullaby- hoping he might hear them and find his way home: My little angel, sent from above. Whenever you need me, you'll find a heart filled with love, I breathed into the glass by the front window, leaving a circular pattern that faded as quickly as it came.

to be continued...