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Posts Tagged ‘audience’

In the Dark of the Cinema

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , on September 1, 2025| Leave a Comment »


 
 
My daughter dangles
her legs over mine.
I rest my head on her
shoulder. Is it true
every film is an exploration
of how growth depends
on letting something go?
Or is it simply the glasses
I wear, lenses grubby
from tears, that make it
seem this way? All I know
is it’s easier to practice
letting go when
we’re curled in together,
her hand pressed into mine,
tears sliding down
both of our cheeks,
scent of popcorn
thick in the air,
and all around us
others sniffling, too,
the light blue against
our upturned faces.

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Under the Big Shade Tree

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on February 19, 2013| 5 Comments »

They are all around me,
the ones with white hair and no hair,
the ones who can hardly stand
or walk or feed themselves.
I am like them that way,
only much, much younger,
sitting in the sharp cut grass
wearing only my diaper,
my bloomers, and my curiosity.
I am eating a popsicle,
orange. And I can tell
they are watching me.
It is easy for them.
They smile at me and point
and chat. But I also know
it is not about me,
their broken laughter.
Nor is it about the popsicle
trickling sticky and orange
in my hands, down my neck.
It’s about, well, I don’t know
that part yet.

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Dedication

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on August 12, 2012| 4 Comments »

I wish you were writing this poem
about those two days you hid in the woods,
partially scalped, your legs broken, your two kids
with you, hiding from the man who promised
to kill you when he came home.

I wish you were writing this poem
about the places you go in your mind
when the men mount you and start
their furious pumping.

I wish you were writing this poem
about the day you knew for sure
that you were not beautiful.

I wish you were writing this poem
about the look on your child’s face
the moment you slapped her
for calling you Bitch. And another
poem about the moment after.

I wish you were writing this poem
to the woman who slept with your husband,
asking her everything you know
you will never understand.

I wish you were writing this poem
about the way the light hit the empty room
just after you packed all your things to leave,
and how in that light for a moment
you thought you could stay,
loving in that moment the room, the potential,
and still you knew you would go.

It would not comfort you, this poem
that you are not writing, would not make
one thing better. Would not fix, not heal,
not redeem nor transform.

But something would happen,
something unnamable and mysterious—
and from that broken, torn,
shredded place, you might create,
surprising yourself, a little more space.

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