Grandma’s Generation
The days of lone children
riding atop handlebars
through cookie-cutter neighborhoods
are memories of yesteryear.
They’re sepia photographs
in an attic-ridden album
blanketed in a thick film of dust.
Grandma’s generation says
the good ol’ days
were those spent playing outside
‘til the streetlights called you home.
Grandma’s generation says
you used to let your kids
run loose downtown,
and they’d come back
just fine.
Grandma’s generation says
you can’t let your kids
out of your sight nowadays.
Monsters hide
around every corner,
decorating your town
like broken baubles
on a Christmas tree.
Oh, but Grandma’s generation
had monsters too.
They were just better hidden.
Hidden in bedrooms
down the hall
from where their nieces
spent the night.
Hidden in church pews
with an offering plate
in their callused hands.
Uncles
who never knew
when to stop tickling.
Grandpas
whose hugs
felt like coffins.
Older cousins
with thistle motives
and thorn-covered minds.
Thin, slick combovers
on Sundays.
Coarse, unwelcome hands
on Mondays.
Helping hands
to everyone in town.
Hands that made her
want to vomit.
Hands that made her
want to close her eyes
and sink into herself:
a turtle shrinking back
into its dark, hollow shell.
Maybe if I don’t see him,
he won’t see me.
Monsters hidden
in plain sight
by “well-meaning”
family members.
Family members who said,
It happened to me when I was a little girl.
Family members who said,
It’s nothing to make a fuss about.
Family members who said,
Boys will be boys.
Grandma is from the generation
of sweeping dirt under rugs
and blind, reclusive hurt.
I am from the generation
of good-intentioned helicopter moms
and stranger danger lessons.
I am from the generation
that closely watches their children
as if the earth may open up
and swallow them whole.
I am from the generation
of scorned, vengeful fingers
slowly lifting rugs
and letting dirt billow out
like smoke.
I am from the generation
bathed in your hidden soot,
staying filthy,
black with your sins,
if it means we’re breaking silence.
Maybe Someday
I held a baby
at Christmastime.
Twinkling white
icicle lights
reflected in round chestnut eyes.
Uncontrollable limbs moved about
as if treading water
in an invisible ocean.
I inhaled the new baby smell.
I caressed flawless, porcelain skin,
smooth as marble.
My empty womb
physically ached
with a yearning like no other,
an insatiable longing
others could not possibly understand
unless they, too, had felt it.
For only a moment,
I imagined he was mine.
How foolish.
A pronounced southern drawl
asked the question
I’d been preparing myself for,
the question I’d told myself
not to cringe upon hearing.
It’s about time for y’all
to have your own,
ain’t it?
Bruised gut tensed
a bit too late
for the blow
leaving me to feel
my every organ burst.
How many times
had I been plagued
with a variation of this
intrusive inquiry?
A penny for your thoughts,
a dollar for your questions.
If that’s the case,
consider me rich.
Bogged with questions
from family wanting a new cousin,
from friends buying a third row SUV
to fit their fruitful loins,
from the convenience store cashier when,
Can’t I just buy
these stupid pregnancy tests
without taking a quiz
I’m bound to fail?
Questions of my very own,
unanswered,
piling high.
If questions were worth dollars,
my pockets packed,
my wallet weighted.
Eyes red,
reading another
so cute, I could puke
social media
pregnancy announcement.
Palms damp,
fingers trembling,
waiting for two pink lines
and only getting one.
Knees black and blue,
voice hoarse from crying out
praying loudly,
praying,
When will it be my turn?
I held a baby
at Christmastime.
He said,
It’s about time for y’all
to have your own,
ain’t it?
Chest throbbed
with that familiar melancholy ache
while I formed
yet another
question.
Could they tell
just how forced
my smile was?
Could they tell
I swallowed fire
and willed tears to dry?
Could they tell
the air was suddenly thick
with discomfort?
Sorrow and rage
mixed into a bubbling concoction
and dared me to scream:
We’ve been trying for months.
Thanks for asking.
Do you know how many pills
I’ve swallowed just to ovulate?
It’s not that easy for everyone.
We can’t all blink and get pregnant.
Why don’t you worry about your own business
rather than tend to mine?
I’m sorry.
Are those responses
uncomfortable?
So was
your question.
I could’ve given a million answers
to make my soul
vulnerable and bare.
Instead,
I pulled my smile up
by its bootstraps,
looked to the ground,
and quickly answered,
Maybe someday.
Corkboard Mind
Guidance counselor said,
It’s time to start considering
more realistic careers.
Those dreams are like the lightning:
nice to look at,
not to touch.
You better build a concrete wall
around yourself
to keep you safe,
to keep you secure.
Who cares
if your brain cells pop
one by one
like bubbles
of trigger-happy children?
Who cares
if your volcanic creativity
that used to spew rainbows
slowly shrivels
like a salted slug?
Middle-aged stranger
asks what I’m going to school for.
I could open the spout
and drown him
with earnest, eager zeal.
Instead, I downplay,
defensive way.
I was 19,
he was halfway dead,
he halfway said
something that stuck
front and center,
pinned inside
my corkboard mind.
Rewind, repeat.
Rewind, repeat.
Stranger said,
You’ll never be successful.
Those dreams are like the lightning:
nice to look at,
not to touch.
Success.
As if he knew success
from those black, rotten
mushrooms sprouting on his chest
I’m sure no one wanted to touch.
And now,
I’m grown.
But I’m aware
there are barely formed bits
of speckled flesh in my eyes.
You don’t have to tell me.
I’m aware
I am a babe of many sorts,
freshly pushed forth
from the womb
and told to
crawl,
walk,
sprint.
Just gasping for those first few breaths,
not understanding
why they won’t come,
oblivious to all the adults
breathing just fine.
I guess that’s just
the small-town curse
doing her worst.
Just when I thought my glasses
were more rose-colored than the next,
I realized it was because
no one was even wearing glasses
to begin with.
Now, I’m in my own race,
screaming at myself
run faster!
Running,
running while I stitch up my own lips
to keep myself from
screaming for help,
screaming for someone
to take a chance
I’m in my own race,
a lone race.
What am I competing for again?
Thread the needle while I run
and sew my lips
stitch by stitch,
thimble-less fingers pricking up blood,
but I don’t mind.
Those red droplets let me know
that at least I’m doing something.