2005 - Vol. 2, Issue 4

"A Woman Filled with the Sadness of Living"

put her nightgown on the bed.
Put her housecoat and slippers, her hairbrush
and her chargecards on the thick white spread.
She put her degree in home economics,
the cooking classes she used to teach,
the college award she wanted to give back—
she took her first romance, her three children,
her dead mother's photograph,
her years of service in the National Council
of Jewish Women on the bed. She put there friendships
by the dozen, gifts given, gifts received —
the new mink coat never wanted, though worn,
the sewing table she no longer uses, the knitting needles
she hasn't seen for years — she took her husband, her lifelong love and put him on the bed.
Everything she could remember: the microwave
and new refrigerator, the reupholstered chairs. The pale
thin pink champagne glasses she laid
beside her pillow. The piano lessons and ballet classes,
the Seders and Friday night dinners, she even took the challah,
fresh baked this morning, and the pie crust, still cooling, waiting
to be filled with lemon meringue and put them there.
When the bed was nearly covered,
when neither the cool breeze of morning
nor the hot orange sun of late afternoon
could reach below the pile,
she removed her arm, and then her leg,
and then her other arm and her other leg,
and placed them on the bed. And with her two free hands
now she lay her feet, her torso,
her head and her ass and neck bones,
she put them side by side, in the center of the pillow.
She arranged each bone, each joint,
each curve of flesh so the parts lay symmetrical.
With her hands, she swept the floor, dusted the bureau
and the night stand, took a sponge and scrubbed out
the bathroom sink. With her right hand she opened
the cupboard door. With her left hand she reached in
to get the bottle. The two hands flew back to the laden bed,
reached inside the mouth, emptied the bottle until
there were no pills left. Her hands had done their work now.
They folded themselves neatly, one on top of the right
knee, the other on top of the left.
Her bed was made. She wouldn't dream of getting up now,
not for anything.

"God, Resting"

"Forget your life, say God is great"
                              —Rumi

Forget your life
Say god is great

Not just today
When you're happy
But yesterday
When you couldn't
Get out of bed
Those weeks and months
Those years when you couldn't
Get out of bed
That was god resting
Tired of what we've done
With this world

It's not your life
That's been on hold
Waiting 'til you're well enough
It's god's invitation
To let this life
Be enough

When sickness flattens
You again
When failure and success haunt
Like hungry ghosts whose
Forks and knives clatter
In your ear
Forget your plan
And sing

The song is that moment
When nothing works
And only god is left

"Cassandra*"

I lie still on the wooden floor, knowing
but impotent

I am from perfume and plastic and permanent waves
I am from formaldehyde and oil stained wood floors and heat–treated jeans
I am from antibiotics and antihistamines and antidepressants in my mother's milk
I am from agribusiness, pesticides, Chemlawns and Lemon Pledge

I am from oak trees and eagles and rage

I am from oil fields burning and soldiers dying on both sides of the fire
I am from growth hormone fed milk and radioactive salmon and oranges waxed with petroleum
I am from laser printers and Xerox machines and laundromats reeking of Tide

I am from can't go out at night, can't go into that store, that library,
that restaurant that's newly remodeled
I am from charcoal face masks and water filters and only buy organic food
I am from food stamps and SSI and doctor's appointments for my daily bread
I am from you don't look sick, you look just great, no sign of dishevelment
I am from can't think since the diesel truck went by, since the road was paved, since my
mind went on sabbatical from the chemical spill

I am from don't talk, be quiet, don't fight back, hide
I am from ACT UP, Speak Out, silence will kill you quicker than the plague

I am from we're not dying but what we know could save the planet, could save you from
cancer, could save your children from a lifetime of Ritalin

I am from no one's listening, I want my life back, I want my body not to hurt

I am from coal mines the canary never came back from

I am the canary and this is my silenced song

*In Greek myth, Cassandra was a prophetess. Apollo loved the mortal woman and gave her the power to foretell the future. But when she refused his love, Apollo turned against Cassandra, dooming her to know the future and never be believed.

"God, Resting" first appeared in PATCHWORK: The Online Journal of Patchwork Farm Retreat, Issue 4, 2004