Our Bodies, Our Selves: For the Daughters of Eve [a poem]

Our Bodies, Our Selves: For the Daughters of Eve

This one’s bowels scream, “Stop telling me I’m broken!”
While another’s heart says, “I do not feel safe here inside this hummingbird chest.”

This one’s got her fist in her throat
Where his was
Coming up and out with the windpipe
Playing that slender flute for the first time in a long time

She’s pulled the voicebox, too
Her sister opens it, turns the tiny rusted crank
We hear the pink ballerina of her tongue dancing free

Listening to this, to the wail song, to the conjugated sob
We un-lay bricks from another one’s shoulders
And watch as her wing spread spans so many stories

This one doesn’t tolerate stitches, so, fingers woven
We suture her incision with the needle of not-knowing and
String made from our own guts

This one lays her hands where that one’s son once nested
Before he swept out and into a current he couldn’t control
She pulls the red thread that says
“Don’t hold it in, or it will break you.”

Alice really went through it, didn’t she?
The glass, I mean.
But she gave us the shards and the splinters for
diamond rings, sweet tokens.

Such shiny things. We are not broken.

With the Guillotine Down & The Body, A Prayer: On Recovery [two poems]

With the Guillotine Down

I am a broken-headed woman, holding heartache in my hands.
I am not trying to be pretty.

What use is mascara with the guillotine down?

I am not the story they have made of me

From the small slice
They got off their blade:

Whore.

Selfish.

Ungrateful.

Fake.

Stupid.

Not enough.

Too much.

I can write different words. 

Tell myself new stories until 

I believe them.

The Body, a Prayer

I am an exquisitely patterned daughter of loss.

I try not to stir my coffee too fast.
I try not to shush the chattering women.
Hear them as birds about their business.
Let the bee sit on my ring.
Let my morning become our morning.

I do not know what happens next.

We all need to pray.
And we all have different ways.

I pray by my borrowed bed:
May I meet the moment without seeking to over determine it.
May I sink into the center of this swelling broken and be healed.

Unleashed, I Go Hunting: Upon the Occasion Of Collaring a Bird That Forgot To Fly Away [a poem]

Unleashed, I Go Hunting: Upon the Occasion Of Collaring a Bird That Forgot To Fly Away

Dear bird, I love you. This is my teeth around your neck.
Dear bird, we could stick to the script you know.
You keep your early worms and I my biscuits?
Do you really prefer to die?

Dear dog, you say. This is my neck in your mouth.
This is better than a biscuit, and it's why you have teeth.

Incisive as ever, you are dear bird, if slightly cuckoo.
Would I really prefer to bark at the mailman, you ask?

Well, here we are then.

My canines, eponymous and plotting, open you up.
Your guts spill cocoons, milky strands unraveling.

Released from intestinal syntax,
you juggle butterflies in my dreams.
A flowing knit of monarchs.
Not a single broken wing.

Ousting the Ampersand: All I Needed to Know about Moving from Monogamy to Polyamory I Learned in Kindergarten [short essay]

A common misconception about polyamory is that it’s all about sex. That it’s one constant orgy or swinger’s party. I am not the person to hold up as proof against this misconception. After I finally came out as Poly, I tried to clarify our new situation to my husband, with whom I combined DNA twice (we have two kids), and about whom I’m not allowed to talk in front of certain friends saddled with lesser men as mates. I remember—with no small amount of shame—screaming at him that I’d fuck who I wanted, where I wanted, when I wanted. He’s the type who doesn’t ever, ever cry or even come close to crying, but there he was, on the verge of tears, and begging me to go slower.

This wonderful man has earned the right to be with me, dubious right that it seems to be, and to be loved and respected. I have never had to get up with either of our two children in the night unless he’s out of town. When I was breastfeeding, he brought the little poop machines to me and took them away again so I could stay mostly asleep. He’s seen me through debilitating anxiety and insomnia episodes. He’s accepted me, warts and all, even my obsession with picking his zits.

Don’t even get me started on his phantasmagoric kissing prowess and steady sensuality.

All bets were suddenly off, though, and my ninja-kissing, feminist, baby-wrangling husband was told if he needed to end things with us, I would understand, but that I could no longer deny who I am and have always been.

Being poly is the latest celebrity sex trend. Polyamorous or rumored-to-be-poly celebrity couples have made headlines, including Will Smith & Jada Pinkett, Brad Pitt & Angelina Jolie, and even Dolly Parton & her reclusive hubby Carl Dean. I am reminded of Amanda Palmer’s song, “Ampersand,” as I type out those couples’ names: “And I’m not gonna live my life on one side of an ampersand/And even if I went with you, I’m not the girl you think I am.”

There at the top of the stairs, yelling at my husband, I wasn’t just acting out like a teenager rebelling against a repressive father, I was conducting surgery, without permission or anesthesia, gouging the ampersand from my life and my baby daddy’s heart.

But I swear I was poly long before that, and long before it was cool. And long before I was in a position to hurt anyone because of it.

I still remember Bridget’s soft, long braids and Veronica’s fierce black bob, and how we’d brush each other’s hair on the playground, tell each other “I love you,” and imagine our wedding. We had no idea we were supposed to marry men, or that three people aren’t usually put on top of a wedding cake. Mrs. Tilson, our kindergarten teacher—that bitch!—discovered us playing doctor under our coats at naptime. I guess no one told us we weren’t supposed to consummate our pretend wedding on school property, either. So that was the end of that. [Bridget! Veronica! If you’re out there, call me! Our love will never die!] Thereafter, I ascribed to the normal grade-school monogamy rituals, including writing Todd Doane’s name over and over in 4th grade on my Trapper Keeper until he was nice enough to give me his football jersey and sit awkwardly with me on the bleachers at games.

After a few failed attempts at being “open” with some of my long-term partners, which failed mostly due to my jealousy and a desire to have freedom but not give it, I decided it just wasn’t the life for me. I was what’s known as a serial monogamist. Every relationship ended in me cheating on my partner. This is often cited as a problem with monogamy, the nonconsensual nature of the non-monogamy that is still so frequently—if secretly—practiced.

My relationship with aforementioned, much shit-upon baby daddy had been my most faithful one yet. 8 years together, no cheating (well, some slippery boundaries… hey, I’m still me), and previous to the moment of my radical departure from what some would call my sanity, we’re totally domestically blissed out. [Did I mention he runs marathons? And cooks?] I was totally into threesomes, though, as a self-described rampantly bisexual woman. I guess I prove that negative stereotype of the bi woman, too: no one can choose just one!

It took me a few years, but I finally talked my sensuous, but not-really-kinky man into a threesome. It was super successful (no drama!), so I broached the topic of being fully open. This time, I respected my mate so much (as well should I, right?) that I did the unthinkable. I offered true equity. He was free to get it in as much as I was. That said, I was fairly certain I was a lesbian. Like, “Hey, my penis box is checked. Lemme find some pussy to play with.” I even joined Tinder to make this a reality, and I checked the “women only” box. I spent a couple months swiping left and right.

Imagine all our surprise when, on a trip to France, I met what poly folks call a game-changer. And this game changer had (has!) a penis. I’m not sure how much that penis had to do with my baby daddy’s extreme reaction. More likely, it was the way I introduced the boyfriend’s existence into our lives. All bets off, all gates thrust open, and I quickly became the poster child for the complaint about polyamory: “It’s all about sex! You’re greedy!”

I have more sex than anyone has a right to, it’s true. Making the beast with two backs (or three backs!) so often has had the unintentional benefit of helping me finally lose the 2nd-baby weight. My constant-sex weight loss plan has had some unintentional detriments, too. One of my escapades became the rock bottom from which I’ve begun to re-build my wrecked life.

I met her online. She moved to my city, and we met up in animal-print onesies for brunch. We went back to her apartment and immediately proceeded to take off our adult pajamas in a scene much surpassing most hetero males’ fantasy of what girls do during sleepovers.

It being a week before Thanksgiving, and her being new in town, I thought the sensible thing to do was invite my one-day stand to our big friends and family potluck. Where my husband, boyfriend, and two kids would all be.

When she arrived, her first action was to grab my ass in front of god and everyone. Keep in mind this woman is around 6 feet tall, a stripper, and a dominatrix. Which is hot. But she’s also a self-admitted alcoholic, which is, you know, not. The rest of the party was basically her drinking and trying to stuff me like I was the turkey. My invite had said, “Thanksgiving Potluck: Twice the Leftovers, Thrice the Cuddles.” It seems she’d read it, “Thanksgiving Gangbang: Twice the Whiskey, Thrice the Drama.” To deal with my anxiety over her aggressive presence, I thought the sensible thing to do would be to get stoned. Really, really stoned. Stoned beyond the ability to function. Certainly stoned beyond an ability to effectively fend off this she-beast bent on deflowering me.

I found my boyfriend and begged him to defend my honor. Ok, I actually just begged him to hide me until I could sober up enough to deal with the interloper.

Meanwhile, she’s got my husband cornered and is yelling at him that we’re “doing Poly wrong” (no shit, Sherlock!) and that he shouldn’t keep me from her. I decided enough was enough, and I went to confront her. I came in on her telling him he should let me do whatever I wanted to do whenever I wanted to do it. Something in me snapped hearing my own words from my teenage rebellion moment on the staircase repeated back to me. I finally found my voice. My voice told her who the fuck did she think she was? What kind of party did she think this was? I’m not a 7-11! Get out!

I am grateful to her whiskey-soaked overcompensating presence in my life that night. I’ll tell you why. After she left, I shakily told my husband and boyfriend that they were enough for me. That I was only going to date them for a while. They shared a smile common to those who’ve bonded through defeat of a common enemy. They high-fived. Hell, if I’d known this would help them connect, I’d have invited some psycho domme home much, much sooner!

Since then, I’ve been trying to be a good girl, or a better one at least. I’m trying to get this right after my initial eggs-to-the-wall plunge. I’ve been doing my reading. Poly on Purpose, Opening Up, More Than Two, and, of course, The Ethical Slut. I’ve been doing my apologizing. Please Forgive Me, I Didn’t Mean It, I’ll Try Harder, and, of course, You Deserve Better Than Me. I’ve been setting some boundaries. “We Can Discuss My Intentions Before I Act on Them.” “I Can Go Slower Sometimes When You Need Me To.” “I can totally keep myself from fucking my boyfriend loudly for hours in the house while you’re also home.”

Sometimes, it’s best to be discreet. Which is something I could have used knowing in kindergarten when that bitch Mrs. Tilson ruined the purest experience of love I’ve ever had. Before she screwed it all up, I really did learn a lot of what I needed to know in kindergarten. I was never suspicious of what Veronica and Bridget did when I wasn’t around. Maybe they were making cootie catchers with some other kids at recess, but it didn’t matter. I knew how to be present in each moment, and not predict the future in scary ways. I didn’t wonder whether them banging out erasers after school with Mandy was going to lead to me being replaced in our naptime shenanigans. [Seriously, Bridget and Veronica: I miss you! Call me!]

I’m trying to get back there. I’m trying to be who I am in each moment, and offer the love and respect my two lovers deserve. It’s a balancing act, and we’re nowhere near anything like a role model for Poly love. And that’s the hard thing about all this: there just isn’t a role model to follow. I have no idea what I’m doing, no matter how many smart Poly texts I read. So I guess this is where I have to keep writing. Writing into my new life, moment by moment, line by line.