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.

Forced Rhymes: An Ode to Fist-Fucking [what the subtitle said]

Forced Rhymes: An Ode to Fist-Fucking

On the concrete we made soft as a bed,
your fingers feathering and my clutching
rips your shirt. Sorry I’m not, but I said
I was sorry. The sound like your touching

unmaking me each stitch by stitch by stitch.
Your fingers in time, my frayed jerking hips.
I tell you that I could tell we would fit
From the first kiss you stole with flagrant lips.

And I hate to rhyme, and that last one sucked,
Forced punctuation, the high makes me blunt.
You and your sugar fist, with which you fucked
up so many faces, and now my cunt.

Call & Response: A Conversation [a sexy poem]

Call & Response: A Conversation

She:
My mouth
Shape it in your mind
Like an audio jack
The place where you make so much music come out of me
Put it in your veins.
Mainline me.

He:
My cock
Make it with your mouth
Like a taut drum
The place where you make me beat such rhythms
Put it on your ear drums
Hear me.

She:
My eyes
Take them in your hands
Like an electric leash
The place where I am so open
glistening cornea coming clean
Put them in your pockets.
Quell me.

He:
My hands
Read them with your eyes
Like a map in a novel of
The places we’ll go together, our
Rising action, climaxes, the falling.
Put them in your plot holes. Use them to
Write me.

She:
My back
Trace it with your breath
Like a medicine walk
The bridge where you travel
The undulating vertebrate snake of my spine
Put it on your dinner table.
Dig in.

He:
My breath
Stop it with your inner thigh
Like a breathalyzer
The curvy road of your hips
Catching exhaling stutters
Collect me like a gutter.
Let me in.

meeting the moment [journal-type musings]

Even though I've deepened my yoga practice in the last year, and now practice multiple times weekly, if not daily (yet), I am no expert. Many things about yoga still strike me as odd, obscure, or downright offputting. For instance, the fact that I can't find a yoga shirt that doesn't ride up my mom belly in forward fold; the Sanskrit names for the poses, even the ones I've done thousands of times; and the reference to one side of my body as "masculine," and the other as "feminine."

One yoga pose in particular has always held the same importance for me as the peppermint that restaurants put on the plastic credit card tray. [Who eats that thing?] It's the "holding your hands at your heart, palms touching" one. [No, I don't know what it's called in Sanskrit.] Well, lo and behold, I finally understand it, and funnily enough, my dead cat explained it to me.

She's been coming around a lot lately. Not in a Sixth Sense for cats "I see dead felines" sort of way, but not entirely unlike that, either. I keep getting this impossibly tangible sensation of her hair on my palm.

The only part of her recovered from the coyotes was a tuft of her magnificent rusty-colored fur. I couldn't be counted on to brush it daily, but I took her like clockwork to the vet for a lion cut. I wanted to keep that fur from multiplying in the corners and under the beds. After she was gone, of course, I forbid sweeping the house. I missed the scraps of kitty litter getting stuck to my feet, even as I used to curse them. Eventually, my non-sentimental partner did sweep, did remove her litter box, and her food bag. I felt betrayed.

For a while, when I felt her ghost fur in my hands, I would go get the morbid little tuft in its plastic bag in my sacred box (next to my mother's wedding ring, an empty bottle of her perfume, a wooden spool that belonged to my grandmother, etc. and etc. and etc.) I thought about how I never let my cat sleep with me (she might have woken me!), and how she eventually stopped trying, even when I changed my mind. I thought about all the ways I hide from the present moment, thinking of the future or fearing it. Clinging to the past.

I thought of the whole "power of now" cliche. And it started to make more sense. If my cat's death was going to teach me anything, it would be something to do with this.

A dear friend and I have decided to get a friend tattoo. Since we rejected our partners' suggestion to get their names, but cut in half, like an ink version of the old friendship necklaces, we are left wanting a suitable alternative. In conversation recently, we focused on some central lessons we were both getting out of our yoga class, trying to visualize them. One lesson I'd begun to think of as "meeting the moment."

As we were talking about how this concept could be worked into our tattoo, I started using my hands to explain it. I gave the example of a friend she and I were both in the process of "dumping." No regularly chatty patty, this man. Logorrhea, thy name is... well, his name. He overdetermines the moment with constant verbal streaming. He was abused so severely as a child that he likely will never be able to trust others enough to allow them equal space. Listening requires a high degree of vulnerability. When you listen, you're taking something into you, perhaps even letting it change you thereby. As I was discussing him, I pushed one hand against the other and steamrollered past it.

Then, I talked about how some people hide from the moment, and I withdrew that hand, and held it away from its mate. Then I said, "but this is meeting the moment." I put my hands together, with just the right amount of pressure.

I realized I was doing that throwaway yoga pose! Except it was no throwaway pose! I always wanted to stand in a way that stretched my wrists, or with my arms up so I could work on my tight shoulders. The pose was so passive. Or something. And--hello yoga retard!--so absolutely profound!

Often, when we do this pose in yoga, we're singing a Sanskrit chant that means, in part, "My body is a temple." You've heard that phrase before. So have I. I always thought it meant "Eat well; make good decisions; you only get one body; blah blah blah." But it means something more like, "The body is a sanctuary. It's the interface between the self and the divine." [It's hard for me to use that word, "divine." That's another part of yoga I'm still working on, its discussion of a higher power.] My body is the vehicle through which I experience everything; it's the meeting place. How fully I am living in my body determines whether I meet the moment (or don't).

It's a constant struggle for me, to embrace life's loose ends. I strive to meet the moment, the ways my hands meet, just at that point of perfect surface tension, just at that point of sensual awareness.

Leaving my car the other day, I had this brilliant flash of total acceptance. I saw Titus's toys and aborted art projects strewn about my car, and I started laughing, not upset at having a messy car, but ecstatic to have a healthy son, to have that "detritus of Titus," the little littered proofs of his existence. Recently, I stopped taking Trazadone to facilitate sleep. I still use earplugs, and often have to sleep alone, but I'm making my way to being a former insomniac, to becoming a person who doesn't need to sequester herself.

My dreams have come back. Last night, the dream was the moon through a window, and a 2-D representation of the goddess of Spring. She morphed into a neon green and electric flowing 3-D depiction, one that Android Jones would be proud to call his own. I woke up briefly, feeling blessed by that subconsciously generated art. I didn't freak out, "Oh god, will I ever get back to sleep?!" I enjoyed the residual image, and I let its visual lullaby lead me to Lethe.

If Bast (my cat) had been there, I might have looked down and remembered she was named for the goddess of fertility, and maybe she would have been laying next to my "feminine side," and maybe I would have thanked her for giving me the dream.