What I Will Never Say to the Other Woman

You slept with my husband
under family photos,
rested on sheets
that held
my dreams,
laughed into glasses -
fogging rims
that were never meant
for your lips.

Moving into my house,
I bet you did not know
that those clay fish
small, smaller, smallest.
were named for each
one of my girls
or that the pink
metal bucket
hanging
on the outside wall
is filled with shells
and driftwood biscuits
handed to me
one find at a time,
by hands
that I love.

Sometimes I wonder how
you can you allow
your feet
to touch the butterfly rug,
the one I hauled home
one year
from TJMAXX
for $53.99. 

Isn’t it  odd,

that I know

the history of

your rug but you

don’t have a clue?

But I guess 

this does not

bother you much

You did, after all,
plant yourself
in a nest
I lined
with
trust.

Does it echo still,
I wonder?
With hushed voices -
my girls
giggling
into warm summer nights
over boys
they saw
on the boardwalk?

Do you ever try
to wipe away
my fingerprints
that linger
on each handle,
counter top, and wall.
Do you try  to
paint over 
my handiwork
only to have it 
bleed through?

You should learn that
some things
are indelible,
everlasting.

My advice to you is to
go to the beach. 
Bury your face in
romance novels
and bask
in your triumphs
under a sun
that you can
never own.
  
Now, I will tell
you something
that might disappoint you 
You did not hurt me
by taking away
what once was mine
He has that honor 
all to himself

You  could never
be that significant
to me


You hurt me only
as humanity
in general
is apt to do,
by failing 
to do the right thing.

But now, I am
all the lighter for it
and in claiming
my old prize,
you already have
what you deserve

 

Picking Up the Pieces

Some things are just so pretty. Aren't they?I bought this teacup for 20 cents at a thrift store about a year ago. Often, I had my morning coffee from it before work, admiring the size, the form, the violets, the way the light came through it, the way it fit perfectly in my hand, and how the gold rim inside, helped me feel a little important.

A month or so ago, it was precisely this admiration for this cup that prompted me to take its photo, perched, ever so perfectly on my tiny green table. Me being clumsy and all things impermanent, I thought, I might like to have a picture of it when it was gone. Maybe, I told myself, so as not to feel silly taking a picture of a cup, that I would some day learn to paint with watercolor and this might be my first subject.

Of course the cup broke; a casualty the other day, of the heavy tray from the grandbaby's highchair slipping off the counter and taking the cup with it. True to its image, it kept its dignity and didn't make a scene or even cry out when it broke. I was surprised to find it on the floor under the tray, in pretty pieces.

I saved the fragments of violets, where the cup one day, if I ever get the time, might find new life on a mosaic table top, or even as a pendent when I get better at my jewelry making. In fact it will give me more incentive to return to the creative things I love. When something is lost, something is found - I used to parrot this a lot once upon a time.  But the older I get, the more I get to live it, through monumental matters and in miniscule lessons, like the shattering of a perfect violet cup.

Suite Surrender

This endless

tug of war.

Tell me,

If I let go,

what will you do 

with your end?

Lasso the victory

and show it off?

Trip

on your lies

and fall?

I keep 

holding on

hoping 

for a

human

being

at the other end.

But there is

just

irrationality

yanking

without

remorse.

If I let go,

you win

the coveted

castle

And I learn

to live 

without

walls

of 

my own

I might 

one day 

know the

scents of

home again.

But then again, I might not. 

Still,

to let go

is to be free

of you.

And,
I do,

love

the sound 

of that.

Here.

I’m 

letting

go

of 

my

end

What you do with yours, 

is out of my hands.

Tuesday's Grace

I sit with two cats
and sip pale coffee
from a Honu mug
savoring the wishes
that came
with the gift

Squirrels leap
from rooftop
to branch and
cheer about
their perfect
landing

Good books
and a red bowl of
rubber duckies
are at my feet

So much, it
is all so much
I lift my face
toward the
morning sun
and breathe

Careful Now

 

"Careful now," the woman told the small hands holding the lilac sprig. "You don’t want to crush it."

But the girl wanted to bury her face in its soft coolness, breathe in its delight. She wanted to squeeze it, hug it tight, twirl it by its stem. She wanted to wear it in her hair, and sleep with it on her pillow, dancing with its fragrance in her dreams. 

But the lilac sat in a crystal vase on the dining room table until it was tinged with brown. It  grew limp and didn't smell pretty anymore. It drooped over the side of the vase. Soon, it was tossed in the trash, slime on its soggy stem. The little girl stood over the lilac."Flower," she whispered. She poked at it and drew  back from the smell. Turning, she walked away, knowing that she would have loved it all up.