and this, too, shall pass

The tree held her arm branch steady, patient while the snowflakes piled on, one by one, over hours, over a day. Steadfast, still, while the individuals iced over and fused together into something brittle and heavy. Sometime later, that snowy shirtsleeve slipped and bent at the elbow but froze into place before it could fall. Now it hangs there by a thread of something I can't see. I thought gravity was stronger than that.

Soon the clouds separate and the sun shines strong for this season and I squint through the window. While I watch, that strange U-bend made out of snow lets go completely. It falls as a burst of powder so fine I could inhale it, single crystals that catch the sun just before they disappear into a whole world of white. Gone.

The branch cuts across space, straight and naked. A living shadow. Don't worry, I whisper. It'll snow again tomorrow.

sunrise

Everything exists in shades of blue: brittle and cold, deep and unforgiving. Layers of ice hang from shingles, hang in the air. But a fire kindles below the horizon and the flames are melting a hole in the sky. Something's getting in. I watch from the window to see what might materialize.

Slowly a bonfire separates from the low, licking blaze and the sun erupts orange above the bare treetops. Hope singes the morning.

I lift my nose to sniff the woodsmoke curling from the neighbor's chimney.  The furnace kicks on with a click and a whoosh. The air is dry and full of static. I reach out out to warm my hands in the ascending glow, rubbing my palms together. My fingertips knock against the window glass, a block of ice.

after yoga class

my skin felt thin all day. tight across my cheeks, bleached and lifeless, dry and flaking when i smiled. dull, zero, just there. i squinted into the sun and felt the wrinkles deepen around my eyes.

now i rinse my dinner plate.  it's dark outside. i look up and suddenly i see a face in the window above the sink.

stop. it's only my reflection. but who is that? cheeks full and flushed, eyes bright. and -- really? points of light bursting from my skin. it's just the christmas lights in the neighbor's yard, transposed across my forehead. but i feel a heat behind my eyes.

makeshift

I strike the potato peeler against the apple. The skin comes off in small, irregular discs that shoot into the sink and stick to the sides of the basin. Face up, face down: flecks of red and white. The naked fruit is wet in my hand.

Why should I bother to run a knife around the perimeter instead? Art in the kitchen? The curl breaks before it can even be called a curl and I gouge away too much of the good flesh. My mom can do it, though. I guess it takes practice.

Why should I have to peel this apple? Slice it and sprinkle cinnamon? They won't eat it any other way.

And I want them to. Eat it. 

I open the tap and the pieces of peel pool in the drain's mouth.  I'll run the disposal later, after I rinse the dinner dishes.

abundance

a gust of wind. leaves eddy around me.

wait, no. can you believe it? they're hundred dollar bills. flying at me from all sides. i'm in a tornado of them. oxygen inflates my lungs to bursting. my hair whips in my eyes. i grab and grasp and stuff and clutch -- how much can i hoard before time runs out? i spin and leap, almost ridiculous. a frantic ballet. but -- don't laugh. you would too, i know it.

the wind dies. the paper settles to the ground and disappears. anything i'm holding remains material.

i unfold a wrinkled bill. it's not money after all. but this one says: healthy children. and that one says: a supportive spouse (who changes diapers and puts kids to bed and kisses you goodnight no matter what). and here: job(s) you like. and on and on: a home. friends who have your back (even from a thousand miles away). sisters who are friends and parents who still think you can reach the moon.  and there's more: yoga. morning walks. sunrises. food. hot showers. words to read and write. dreams. and finally: anything you want, really.

I feel like I should put one back. I've been too greedy.

But no. I can't. I want it all. I clutch it all to my chest. I won't let it drop. Not one single thing. I am so so rich it hurts.

fully dressed

i'm not going to change my mind. i'm already dressed. why bother.

    just do it. you'll feel better. i can stay.

but you'll have to wake them up. get them going. and anyway, how long would i have? i hate rushing.

    it's fine. it's enough time. go. 

i never like to give in. but this is a carrot i have to take. he's right, i will feel better. but i won't say that. it'll be less like giving in that way. i like to hang on to my convictions. about showering?

i take everything off that i just put on. (layers.) socks and legwarmers under jeans. long sleeved shirt under sweater. five buttons. all the rest. (it doesn't take long.) (a rumpled pile.) (a second skin.)

the water steams. it taps on my skull, weeps down my spine. i close my eyes and all my skin is gone. i am unformed. water vapor. transparent. a ghost.

but then. crack. i hear their voices. i quiver, dimensional again. their footsteps concentrate my mass. i squeeze my eyes and crank the water to ice. i gasp. involuntary. first breath.

and now. i'm solid. i redress.

contrast

this: not ten feet from me, a conversation. a ventilation -- ten years of talk in ten minutes or less. i have trouble making correct change. blood fills my ears. too many too much too loud too busy. when they leave a great space opens up and i think the market must be empty. they took the crowd with them. but no, they were two not twenty and now it's the usual trickle of customers.  i crinkle and release, folding out again now that it's not shoulder-to-shoulder around here. i breathe. expand. i explain how to cook kale.

and then this: another couple stands near the cauliflower, gesturing. they decide not to buy. they use no words. they drift away from my stand, together in their vacuum of silence, a small bubble floating away in a sea of sound. i follow them with my ears,

*

*

*

on justifying

I lean over the sink and squint in the mirror. Up all night is doing nothing for my complexion. Well.

Wait. Something moves in my periphery. I step back, look down. A spider (now still) sits in the sink basin. She's large(r than I like). I watch her struggle. Her front legs flail. She slips a little. Closer to the drain. She climbs again, sure-footed for a few steps, then slides.  It's an inch to the edge. I could help her. She has eyes but I can't see them.

I hate what I'm going to do. But first I pretend she's not there. I brush my teeth. She draws her legs around herself when she senses the water running. I shiver.

I replace my toothbrush in the holder. I dry my hands. I crumple a wad of toilet paper and scoop her up and squeeze her tight and toss her in and flush. Her.

She can't live in my house. (And anyway it's freezing outside.)

on god, or whatever

What's fog?

it's -- clouds. (i hesitate.) thick moisture in the air? hard to see through. look up, at those treetops. how they're hard to see? that's fog. see?

I can tell by the angle of her chin that she's not looking high enough. She sees the tree trunk, not the canopy. But she nods.

***

I want to touch a cloud, the boy says.

you're walking through one, i laugh. the fog dampens (my voice).

He puts his hands over his head, his fingers stroke the air.

I don't feel anything.

***

I drive (just above) posted speeds. My cargo sleeps. Clouds scramble across the sky, black just looking over its shoulder to grey, perpendicular to my path. Where are they going? A higher strata seems still, black blankets that bow under the weight of someone laying down. To sleep? On the job? I can feel the pressure on the space between my eyes. I push back with slightly raised eyebrows to keep my eyes open. To watch the road.

yellow

autumn leaves litter our yard. no -- not litter.

start again.

autumn leaves blanket our yard, putting the grass to bed with a second skin. a dead skin. cells sloughed and scattered by the wind. look at the colors, i say. (every leaf is brown). (but look, dark brown light brown russet golden dirt, backsides different from the front sides). (see the veins?)

i want to find a yellow one. it's only oaks around here. i don't see any yellow. (she will be disappointed.)

but then, there. she finds one. tiny. don't step on it. she takes it inside.

here i am at the end of the day. i rethink and rewind and what what what can i write about, all that brown. but there it is. something yellow.

i close my fist around it and take it with me, to bed.

on reading atwood

I have never read a book like this. Not ever. And I've read quite a few. I really have. Books and books and books, swallowed whole without much chewing, like a person starved. For a story. But this book. These words. Hang in the air like droplets of fog. Move and they condense on my skin. Breathe and they lodge in my lungs. So I walk slowly and inhale completely, pausing pausing pausing before -- just one more moment ---- before exhaling everythinglettinggolookingup. Turning the page.

Oh, oh, to write like that.

good mornings

Morning. She slumps into a kitchen chair. I pour cereal at the counter with my back to her. I wear my plastic smile, the cracked one. She doesn't own such a thing, yet.

She whines. She demands. It starts. My skin crawls and my smile breaks in two. I give her what she asked for and quit the room. The baby is crying.

I disappear in the dark. Sink into the rocker. The door is open and I look out. Backstage.

The hallway is a dim tunnel. A soft light condenses at the other end. He sets his work bag on the floor next to the couch and takes her into his lap. She rests her head on his chest. Wrinkles his shirt. His low voice drifts down the hall. I unclench my teeth. She giggles.

There it is. The part I forgot. Good morning.

shooting star

Why do they call them shooting stars, mama? She stares out her backseat window.  Why do people say they're lucky? Because they are rare. Bits of dust and rock enter the earth's atmosphere all the time. They burn up. Sometimes, they are large enough for us to see. But it has to be night. And you have to be looking up.

I glance in my rear view mirror. Her upturned face glows in the moonlight. The ground rushes beneath us and the heavens are fixed in place.

small talk

Dance music. Little girls shrieking, running, spinning, sliding in stocking feet. I squint and tighten my face against it.

A woman speaks to me. I tuck the grimace into my purse but it catches in the zipper. I fumble. I answer.

She can't hear me. I lean closer, grateful at least for the chair under me. I never know how to stand, what to do with my arms. Now our faces are three inches apart. I swallow the bad taste in my mouth but it sticks to my tongue and when I talk I see my breath singeing the air, curls of smoke, black. I wish I had a mint. Gum. Something. My throat blisters and peels.

Sound vibrates in my chest but the air eats my words and I don't know what I'm saying. She smiles and nods.

hi, mom. call me back if you have a chance.

gripping the ledge all day, fingers shaking, debris pelting my upturned face, breathing ragged. don't touch me. i said that aloud.

her voice was a rope for climbing and when we were done talking i looked around, surprised. here i am on the top of the world.

discard pile

you would think they were dollar bills, or notes from heaven, the way the kids collected them on the way home. one more brilliant than the next, rain dampened leaves, the pavement a quilt of color. a magic carpet.

they deposited their treasure on the kitchen table and dashed off to other caches. their wealth abounds in legos and markers.

now i clear the table for dinner. the leaves are somewhere between wet and dry. starting to curl. dull. i crush them into a ball, open the back door, toss them out into the rain.

no one will notice.

ripple effect

The knife whispers harshly through the potato. A wet sound. A splitting of flesh, then contact with the cutting board, a dead end. Four cuts lengthwise and as thin as I can in the opposite direction. I grip the handle with my left hand and guide the potato with my right, fingers so so close to the blade. One hiccup, one hesitation, one involuntary twitch and --

Don't think like that. It's done.

stretched between

She hangs high above our heads, centered in a web of her own weaving. Her legs curl inward, such a fragile claw. I don't see her there at first. But she catches my eye as soon as I start pushing -- this swing higher higher higher, baby pushes for the other one. I think that spider silk must be made of something strong because I see it stretch as the swings move forward and back. The web twists and torques into a third dimension but it does not tear. Not yet. She rides the fabric under her feet, staying centered. I'm terrified she might drop. She might land right in my hair.

snapshots

her: pink dress with black marker smudges, tucked into her pants, into her undies. milk crusted above her upper lip. mismatched socks, one inside out. overgrown bangs, i really should trim them. tomorrow. she's cold waiting at the bus stop, waiting to wave her sisters goodbye, trying to tuck into my leg but there's no place to hide from the wind so i zip my hoodie around her shoulders. the sleeves brush the ground. the hood falls over her eyes. she can't walk. she laughs.

me: black lounge pants, flour streaked down the left leg. black shirt too because it's the only clean thing. baby drool crusted on my shoulder. socks that won't stay on right, this one keeps spinning around so the heel is on top. annoying. hair lifeless but actually clean today. we walk to the bus stop to pick up the sisters, the yellow-green baby sling is the perfect accessory, compliments all that black and leaves my left hand free to slip into hers as we cross the street. careful. walk the curb. slow. do we don't have time for this? my words in her voice, too big around her shoulders. oh, sweetie, now we do. we came out here early enough today, we don't have to hurry.

addition facts

If you add them all up, they equal me. In body weight, I mean. 55 plus 35 plus 25 plus 15. I could figure out a way to carry them all, if I had to.

There's a woman I see every week at the market. She has four kids. She always brings them. I get a little pang every time I see her -- she's so calm and flanked and whole. Her kids are older than mine and she's still walking around on this earth and her hair is black not white. But when they all stand still for a second I see that they take up quite a bit of space. A couple of them are taller than the woman. I think she must be mighty strong. And she carries around a lot of invisible weight. Or maybe one and one and one and one really doesn't equal four.