raised on the same fairy tales and lies.
My mother, my sister, and I ate strawberries,
sprinkled with sugar, swimming in cream,
as we cooed like doves watching the fantasy
come to life. I’d long ago selected myself
as Prince Andrew’s bride,
cuz Charles was too much work.
My sister reserved herself for Prince Edward,
and our mother looked forward to tea
with the Queen.
Cinderella’s country cousins, we giggled,
our parsonage a small island
in whispering fields of corn.
That morning gave me the only peek
I ever had inside my mother’s imagination,
and thus planted me eternally on #TeamDiana
in the hopes I’d be allowed to visit again.
But recessionals play in a minor key;
the princess pricked her finger on a spindle,
was shattered by mirrors, cursed by fairies,
banished from the kingdom, and hunted
down by dogs. Trolls hide under bridges
and that’s where she died.
Sixteen years after the wedding
I woke in the darkness for the funeral.
My mother self-exiled to Florida
sister long lost to us both, I watched alone,
no strawberries, no sugar, no cream,
sipped coffee as black horses pulled the coffin
through the weeping city.
Rich people scorn the way the poor
buy lottery tickets,
but what would you pay for an hour
of untainted hope, of happiness unfettered?
If the ticket had my mother’s name on it
I’d dance across minefields for the chance.
manure
Living on a pig farm did not motivate
me to go to college
not picking stones from the fields
nor burning off crop stubble
nor penning up ducks trying to escape
nor plucking their feathers after slaughter
so they could be served at Christmas.
Working on a dairy farm didn’t motivate
me, either. I liked the sound of slow-breathing
cows, bruises from kicking hooves
shoveling manure, herding the girls
in from the green, chased by a bull once
I sprinted and slid to safety
under an electric fence,
freezing, sweating, muscle-burning work
made me grateful
I wasn’t stuck inside.
No, it was my job in hell,
I mean, at the mall, selling shirts
folding sweaters, moldering into a minimum-
wage service clone, clothing store sorter
of boxes of socks of urgent priority, avoider
of the manager, my mom, momager of a different
kind, she had high hopes for me,
business school for sure,
then the chance to follow in her footsteps
and be every bit as miserable as she,
circling from mall to television set,
television set to the mall.
For years I thought that was her plan
but recently I’ve begun to doubt it,
remembering her proud satisfaction
when I made a better life for myself.
I think that giving me the most boring job
in the history of the world
was my mom’s way of loving me.
lazer focused
I woke up at three thirty a.m.,
was in the barn milking by four,
headed home for a long shower,
then drove to school
Onondaga Community College,
home of the Lazers,
went to all my classes and stayed awake,
asked questions, did my homework, studied hard
and always sat in the front row.
When you are shoveling
cow poop to pay your tuition,
you want to get your money’s worth, every dime.
Some people grow up knowing what they want
to do: they color inside the lines,
study at the right school,
check off the boxes, and
in the end
they are handed the grown-up life
they’ve dreamed of.
That’s mostly bullshit, for the record.
Trying to figure out what you want to do,
who you want to be, is messy as hell; the best
anyone can hope for is to figure out
the next step.
For me the first step was to try college,
then a university, if I could get a scholarship,
to study translation: the art, science, and magic
of distilling meaning from one language
to another
but complications ensued
and the plot twisted, hard.
drawn and quartered
At community college we had a professor
sweet and fangless
he was known as “the widow”
raising nine kids on his own.
Cancer ate most of his wife
but her pregnant womb
was the fortress resisting the final bite
long enough to breathe
life into their phoenix child,
who was born in bitter grace.
That professor taught anatomy
breastbone connected
to ribs, pelvis to spine
and so on
he waxed rhapsodic about the form
of the female leg. Drew one on the board,
a small, high-arched foot wearing
a stripper-pole stiletto. The angle
of the heel tightening
the gastrocnemius muscle
of the calf, he traced the action,
contraction of muscles, drawing,
climbing the leg’s ladder until he reached
his favorite part: the gluteus maximus.
My sweet, fangless professor drew
big, bulbous buttocks
like heavy, low-hanging fruit
he patted them fondly, wanting
to take a bite, he told us
that this sweet curve of ass
was why Barbie dolls’ feet
were formed for shoes
with ridiculous heels
plastic foot-binding
for girl children,
objectification
served with mother’s milk
He never fondled, never hit
on any of us students, that old man,
but still
we left his class
feeling a little dirty.
calving iceberg
and then it was time to say goodbye
again
we packed the station wagon
for my last leaving, for the predawn trip
to Georgetown; me, my sister
Daddy and Mom,
all of us knowing
none of us saying
that I’d never live in their house again
though I’d visit when I could
the drive to D.C. hurt
the unpacking of my suitcase
positioning my alarm-clock radio
gooseneck study lamp
hot-air popcorn popper
everything hurt
as a transfer student I had a single,
silences, the awkward fumbling
for tissues, Daddy making jokes
sprinkled with bad puns so we could groan
out loud and pretend to laugh
I had no microwave or fridge or TV
but I had my dictionaries
and a phone for local calls
and envelopes with stamps
my mother cried all day long
I tried not to look at her because
it hurt
it all hurt so much
the necessary, impossible goodbye
that had suddenly, in slow motion, arrived
weakening our knees
we leaned on each other
putting my T-shirts in the drawer
hanging up my towel
unwrapping a bar of soap
opening the new toothbrush
sharpening the pencils and placing them tip up
in a plastic cup next to my typewriter
Mommy brought extra bottles of Wite-Out
cuz she knew how many mistakes I’d make
they had a six-hour drive home
so we didn’t have time for dinner
we limped down the stairs
down the stairs we limped
cuz it hurt
it still hurts
my father and my sister poured
the wet ocean of my mother into the car
buckled her in, then limped to their own doors
the melting begins at the waterline
as young icebergs prepare to calve from glaciers
the breaking off is always preceded by a rift
rarely seen by outside eyes
but felt inside the heart of the ice
the eruption, the split makes a noise
heard for miles across oceans
of salt water and time
the ripples are still washing ashore
sweet-and-sour tea
I went shopping with a new sorta-friend
my first semester at Georgetown, aliens
warily circling each other, sniffing for clues,
both of us desperate and lonely
cuz she was British boarding schools
and flying first class while I was a hillbilly
who worked on farms, chopped wood,
shoveled manure, and milked cows.
But we smelled some possibility,
so she led, I followed
and after hours of watching her buy things
(I’d never seen someone my age with a credit card)
she announced we should have a proper
English tea, her treat,
which sounded good to me.
We floated into a restaurant, perched
on Cinderella couches, spread cloth napkins(!)
on our laps, and she ordered tiny sandwiches and
a high-class blend that came with its own pedigree
I asked for plain tea, regular folks’ tea,
the waitress asked me, “Cream or lemon?”
and I said, “Both.”
It was the first cup of tea of my entire life.
Tiny, crustless sandwiches arrived
you needed two to make a mouthful
and the waitress poured our tea
into skin-thin china cups
we spooned in heaps of melting honey
added thick cream, already heated
and stirred silver spoons in an arpeggio
of satisfaction, tink, tink, tink
I was a glowing, sparkly unicorn
in love with a life that suddenly included
tea and cute sandwiches. I picked up the slice
of lemon and I squuuuuuuuuueeeeeezed
it into my dream cup
It curdled instantly, it damn
near turned into cottage cheese
for a horrified moment
we both stared in my cup
I waited,
praying for a friendly laugh to bridge
her world and mine, the way I’d laugh
sweetly
if she ever tried to milk a cow
and screwed up, which she would,
cuz it’s hard, but my laugh
would ring warm like a copper bell
and I’d help her
She snorted, her lip curled.
Scorn dripped from her chin
and burned holes in the tablecloth
torching any hope we could be friends.
Most relationships come with expiration dates
just like milk and bread. Some go sour
before you can taste them.
offending professors
Young flesh perfumed with trust
smells like fresh meat
to stalking professors
dreaming of the feast
it happened to me
twice
One: at community college, my health professor
invited me to celebrate the A+ he gave
me for a paper I wrote about LSD
he said we could drink wine at a motel, his treat
he said we would have awesome sex at the motel
he said his wife was totally cool
with him fucking students at motels
when I declined the offer
and tried to leave, he chased me around the desk
he blocked the exit
bullying me to at least make out with him
I didn’t
Two: at Georgetown University,
my department head
invited me into his office to discuss my need
for a special scholarship to study in Peru.
To be able to translate Spanish, I’d need to live
in a country where it was spoken
I brought notes to the meeting, all my pla—
he lifted his hand to interrupt me
the department head said that we had been lovers
centuries earlier
we’d been Aztecs, had sex in the jungle
he said that we were cosmic soul mates
and needed to have sex again, unite our bodies—
I walked out before the ritual chase
around the desk
Shielded by ivy curtains, tenured lions
force their prey to sprint from the water hole
in any direction that seems safe
even if it takes them far afield from their goals
he didn’t give me that scholarship
I never studied in Peru
never studied in any country
where Spanish is spoken
never became a translator
unless telling stories counts
grinding it out
I sailed to Georgetown University on a rowboat
kept afloat by student loans and
working twenty-five hours a week
water rushed in the holes at the bottom
so I bailed day and night,
just fast enough to stay above water
worked as a lifeguard,
stayed in D.C. every summer
rented a cot in a hallway, stored my clothes under it
then shared a small house with five people who
hated each other
good times
sold Time Life books over the phone, a gross job
but they let me call my grandmother every day
and talk to her for an hour for free,
instead of the thirty dollars
that daytime calls to Florida cost back then
w
hen minimum wage was $3.35 an hour
you better believe I worked hard for them,
I loved my nana
at college I skipped breakfast, ate an apple
and granola bar for lunch
and feasted at dinner; thank you, meal plan buffet
at Georgetown I stewed my brain
in German and Spanish
when Peru was taken off the table
cuz of the predatory department head
I earned a degree in linguistics, charting
the transformation of languages
over time, vowels waltzing, consonantly flirting
words flinging open windows to the past
I avoided studying literature and writing class
married the sweetest guy I met there
who loved overseas adventures and politics
and looked really good in shining armor
the marriage didn’t work; we were way too young,
but he is still my dear friend
I loved the ancient magnolia tree
that grew next to the library
shading anxious students, perfuming the air
inviting us to stand in her cool shade
and breathe in: inspire, breathe out: expire,
catch hold of our trueselves,
sew them tight to our shadows
before the pressure of performing blew us all away
magnolia leaves are huge, waxy,
shaped like rowboats
the perfect escape for a mouse
or a small-feeling person
I didn’t need one, not anymore
I was in way over my head at Georgetown
but at least I knew how to swim
scratching my throat with a pen
After college, our wedding, after the babies came,
we were so broke I had to get a night job
cuz we couldn’t afford child care:
I became a reporter
perfect work in the dark for a shy child
beginning to clear her throat
Sewer board meetings—oh, the glamour!
and the stench of government corruption,
small-stage culture wars on school boards,
union officials who lied to me, straight-faced
just like the mom who said her kid cut
up his mouth on glass shards in his cereal
total bullshit, she later confessed
she just wanted attention and some cash
I asked questions, took notes,
wrote, wrote, wrote, wrote, wrote, wrote
revised, sniffed out lies, unburied
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