Diptych

 

                                                    I.

The young girl sat uncomfortably on the cold exam table, hunching over protectively in the strange paper gown they’d given her to wear. Her mother’s presence nearby did little to alleviate the feelings of exposure and vulnerability that washed over her as they waited for the doctor to enter the room. She was already too familiar with this scenario and she hated it; a man in authority coming to examine and touch her small, unclothed  body. It didn’t really matter to her that it was his job, and it did not feel ok, regardless of the number of times she was told it would be. She stiffened as he opened the door, saying hello kindly to them both.  He asked her her name, and told her to take deep breaths as he listened through the frigid disc he slid inside her gown and placed over her heart. It was beating like a rabbit, her heart, and he withdrew his hand and his equipment. “Don’t like doctors much, huh?'” he asked.  She shook her head no.  “Well, you’re not alone there.  I will be as quick as possible-but it’s my job to make sure everything’s working right. That’s why your mama brought you here today. Now, how about just taking a deep breath, and lying back on the table for me?” She resignedly complied, hoping that it would be over soon.  He again reached inside the flimsy garment, feeling about her chest and abdomen, occasionally listening through his device and writing things down.  What he was doing certainly felt different than what she was used to, but she still didn’t like it. “Your mom tells me you just had a growth spurt.  How do you like being taller?” he asked. “I like that well enough, but this happened,” she said, timidly pulling back the paper to reveal her inner thigh peeking out below the leg of her white cotton panties which were covered in cornflower blue blossoms.  She pointed to the angry purple stretch marks that had appeared with the growth.  They looked like the meandering trails she had seen left by hungry worms in wood, and she felt they made her ugly. “Will they ever go away, turn beautiful again?” she asked.  “I’m afraid not, honey,” he said, sadly.  “But in time, the purple will fade, and you won’t notice them as much.”  She felt hot tears well up, but she refused to let them fall.   Everything there was all wrong, ruined.  She felt certain that something important had been taken from her, before she even knew she had it to steal. 

 

                                                  II.

It was Friday night and Alex was on the prowl.  She slipped into a casual, rolling gait, relaxing into the night with a feline grace.  She had always been most comfortable at night, as her nature possessed the same velvety nuances as the shadows just beyond the pools of city lights. She saw best in low light.  You only ever saw so much of Alex, but those brief flashes were her siren call.  She left indelible marks on every client she entertained.  She was elemental, her movements fluid as water, eyes simmering with fire on a constant slow burn.  Her beauty attracted the predators, but there was an air of weaponized damage about her that simultaneously held them at bay.  How to harm something already so broken? Everyone knows about the dangers of the night.  What they aren’t always prepared for are the dangers of Alex.

before we built the walls

 

before we built the walls, there were none between us at all.

in that freedom of openness we reveled and revealed ourselves,

passing tenderly into sacred spaces;

we worshipped in wild abandon and were each the other’s best defender.

when first we built the walls, we were safe together inside them.

deep within our fortress, we opened all our doors, even ones that

had never opened since the day they’d been shut,

in places we didn’t even know. inside were animals,

the fruits of our wounds, and we suffered hurt from their unleashing

where we had never hurt one another before.

after the bloodshed, there were walls built between us

and now we walk alone, haunted by the other’s ghost

in a picture turned a negative, wondering how we may

return to the land we lived in before we built the walls.

question

 

what makes us good? did we invent religion to give us a means of feeling ‘good enough?’ and if one stops believing the things he or she counted on for salvation, what then? 

night drive

in the dream it is dark.  i am riding in the backseat of the car my parents owned when i was fifteen.  my father is driving my mother and me through the nighttime streets of some vaguely familiar town.  it is quiet.  the only sound is the gentle rush of the road beneath our tires as we pass hypnotically through pools of soft yellow light cast down from the streetlamps above.  i don’t know where we are going, but am content to ride along.  outside the window a concrete bridge appears, carrying us across a robust river.  we have left the city behind and are now in a quiet countryside.  the car’s headlamps illuminate the road ahead, and i catch glimpses of things at the edges of their light: a cluster of pines, an old ramshackle barn, an animal of some kind.  we begin to climb.  soon after, we drive through a sheer rock pass that rises out of sight on both sides, drawing my eyes to the stars. they are crisp and bright in the cold night air.  there is as yet no sign of the moon.  i lay my head back against the headrest, feeling lulled by the forward motion, the nearness of my parents in this space.  it’s almost a strange regress to the womb, as if my adult self could return with all its consciousness to that time between times and float weightless on those healing amniotic waters.  it is then that i feel a light touch on my knee.  instantly alert, i raise my head to see my now dead mother turn to face me from her seat in the front and say: ‘Love, you have always had a beautiful heart.’  i am relieved.  i’ve had doubts, and forgotten the sound of her voice, but now, in this fluidity, my whole being reverberates with the tone of rebirth.

unfettered

it was the teeth.  she was certain of it.  they were holding her back, blocking the flow of her thoughts like restraining bolts, worrying her sleep with constant grinding.  they ached throughout the day and were becoming sensitized to heat, cold and sweet.  the idea crept horribly into her mind and wouldn’t leave: they had to go. she sat quietly with this knowledge for a while, accepting it deep into the molecules of her being. after some time, and with resolve and peace, she got up and retrieved a pair of pliers from the garage.  she took the time to boil some water, drop them in, and wait for sterilization. she let them cool, breathing herself into a meditative trance. thus girded, she calmly and carefully pulled each and every tooth. she felt a lightness creep in as the process occurred; she cried a little with relief. when it was done, she rinsed her mouth with a shot of whiskey, spitting it out in offering to the muse inside her head.  she stood a moment and looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, observed the offending bits of bone in the trash, feeling triumphant. she smiled a raw smile, went to her computer and began to write, a torrential flood that stanched the spill of blood from her now empty sockets.  she had never been as happy. 

nashville saturday morning

 

dear intruder

 

you were an echo of my past,

a dark pattern repeated.

i, a girl wanting to be seen & discovered;

you, all too willing to oblige,

though with an agenda all your own:

everything free comes with a price.

you brought me briefly into your world,

just as you let yourself into mine.

a decency of sorts was perpetrated in your act---

you could have taken more;

like the first, you believed you had the right.

and here i am left wanting

more than i had or have

and wondering

what i’ve lost or given up

or taken in return;

you teach me the limits of my guilt,

my hunger, my shame. but

you will never have what you want of me;

it belongs to me alone.

and i will not let myself become

another you,

despite the pull of your dark gravity.