I do not write anymore.
I do not write.
Lists fill my mind, purse, journal, which used to contain
The lists remain undone,
my hair shows strands
I would find this beautiful on anyone
but this body,
the one I must live with, and watch
with the contempt of a house cat
who has lost her perch.
Do not worry, this is not a poem. Or an essay or a study
there is nothing scholarly witty or worthy in these lines
– a journal grants great indulgence. “It’s mine,”
as my 4 year old might say.
These are the briefest jots of grief
I simply miss the act
of sitting with
and then dispensing with
thoughts along a digital page.
This is why I do not write.
In the last 2 months
I sold my house.
I searched for another
(43 unlocked doors for sale –
And found myself with a full account
and an empty end point.
And this is why I do not write.
I have this Ex-Husband. Father to three
little children who grew within me
and now can somehow grow
The Ex-Husband (how does a person become an X?) prefers the three
small beings to be split down the middle,
two houses two lives two families…
and I am unsure
if this will not make for more than 6 huge problems:
Identity, Security, Consistency, Home(lessness), Displacement, Confusion –
in the age of the refugee
there are more than a few sorts…
And so I asked
begged bullied pleaded
for the little creatures to have 1 house life family. Avec moi.
“You’re dreaming.” He said.
Well… no one could deny or argue with that.
But… who is not dreaming?
My dreams are image and wisdom
pulled together by invisible synaptic string.
The string becomes a hum:
“the children need a home.
the children need a home, singular
Not in the singular, spectacular manner of fantaisie royale
just a simple home. One home. One room. One bed.
You must give this to them, as a womb outside your body.”
This is why I don’t (can’t) write anymore.
I took an apartment in a neighborhood filled with trees
a block or two from their fairytale school.
It is a flat with windows and a sunrise that
uncurls without impediment
every morning into my high bedroom
a wall of windows open
to the Eastern light.
The apartment is a place to sleep.
Keep my books.
My obscene amount of clothes.
It is a flat to hold my body during rest,
while I tend the children
at their father’s house (their Home)
during the days and evenings.
I have a beautiful flat
I am homeless
I am city-less
with this Ex
with this president
I have a beautiful flat
filled with boxes, neglect
My children have
And lest you think
I am filled with self-pity
I beg the reader to remember:
a woman with three children
has lost her mind
to a complicated math:
three hearts, none
in her possession.
And as long as the three hearts
are beating as they should
it does not matter where her frame resides.
As I write these words
that reach for a meaning
the writer herself cannot grasp
I am text-fighting.
This is the primary manner
of communication, the chosen
both sacred and necessary
and absent utterly
Do you ever catch yourself
in the modern mirror?
Your reflection a recreation
and an editing
like a weak and fearful
in the ether
of the digital world?
There is no love.
This, a cocooning comfort
to the man
whose rage used to grip my thighs
(“fucking” he always called it)
Do I hate him?
I do not know
what hate is.
But I do know
what fucking feels like.
that my soul
and he stared at me
the way they do
they train for an expressiveness –
the grace of wisdom
even if they
when the initials are stripped from the name.
This is what I needed to say:
I am cast
There is no family for this life or body or heart
my children live in a home ringed with spiked wire
and all I do is bleed in the crawling
my torso is mud
vertical lines of blood.
I cross him
every day to reach them
he is a man one does not cross.
I am on the run.
ownership is alien
for a mother with no family
one day I might hold them
and whisper the Gayatri
in their spiraling sleeping ears
hair damp with dreams –
I wide awake as dawn nears.