poetry

this is saturday

I wake to the sound of footsteps
running one-two-one-two
soft sticky hands on my face
but I withdraw at the sight
I think about the taste of the apple
I am about to eat
like a horny teenager
I can’t wait

I move like maple syrup through
men bearded like hunters
pretenders
eyes meet they linger or maybe
it was all in my head
wedding rings glint they glimmer they
give them away
I refocus my attention on frozen food
and produce and non-dairy
milk

“She always wears Wayfarers”
thats what he told me at
poetry group yesterday
on Friday
he reads a poem inspired by my face
he assures; he continues:
“she takes off her top and
the sun makes love to her body”
he tells this to everyone
I recoil, embarrassed
I remember this and google him today
he exists on the internet
I’m impressed

Always at 9pm I clean the house
first I wash the dishes
and I finish with the living room
I reorient the rug and
put on my headphones
I dance with animal abandon to provocative
bass lines, to hip hop, sometimes to
electronic noise, sometimes
just to the lullaby
of ambulance sirens

I force myself to stop moving by
midnight I check on the
children they sleep deep
they look dead
I ponder the depths of my
depravity as I watch them
I stay up too late lost in the
bowels of youtube ignoring time
and space and the impending consequence
of a 5am curtain call

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lists, poetry

A list of things wrong with my body

1. Tits are less perky than before*, ****

2. Hips have stretch marks*

3. Sides of my ass have scars **

4. I always want to be ten pounds less than I am***, ****

5. My nose could be daintier I suppose****

6. My hair is generally disobedient****

 

 

* side effect of having three children

** due to (previous) dull needle usage / an argument for a needle exchange program in San Diego county

***  I have control / vanity issues maybe

**** I go back and forth on whether these value judgements I hold are subjective or objective but I chalk them up to a myriad of factors including but not limited to: genetic endowment intersecting sloppily with social constructs of beauty, psychological insecurity, people pleasing tendencies, hopeless romanticism, navel grazing, a history of male relationships wherein how much I felt loved grew in direct proportion to how much the number on the scale dropped (husband, father, and so on), and other equally as mundane and unoriginal things.

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