Bruised Fruit.

We're a bowl full of undesirables
and bruised fruit.

And really, who likes damaged goods?
Roads are winding and I'm a little woman driving
a boat of a truck.

Wondering where my exit is and if I should pick up something to cook for dinner.

I keep forgetting to look at the clock or the miles I've driven,
but it feels like I've been wandering ages into the rain.

Must have passed my turn,
must have gone too far, too far where there are no houses
with kinds lights and front porches.

Turn around, drive back through unfamiliar to no familiar
and repeat. With more water, less road.

Finally, there's a change to the darkness.
My brights meet the whites of a terrified doe
and we meet with shades of red and a wide
arched turn into the ditch.

Not a, but the ditch which I spent hours
or maybe minutes resting in, that cradled
my boat out of the rough river
of the highway.

Seconds break waves over the shore of the ditch
and I sit, we sit, the boat and I, we sit
the doe and I.
And no one moves.

I won't make the first move.
But she won't move, she just lays there
looking docile.

I move, I shift back into
the river of a highway
and hope it opens up into familiar
waters.

I didn't want to move first,
but she refused,
decided to lay there like bruised fruit.
An undesirable fixture on the side of the river, the road.
Maybe to be picked up by someone who enjoys damaged goods.

Sometimes I forget that this heart tore once, or twice, or too many times.
It makes sense when I remember, because it must not have put itself back together
just as it was before.

Sometimes I turn and it catches, something not placed quite right.
Now and then a stitch that refuses to mend well.

Lately it's been all about remembering.
Lately, I keep remembering and it keeps hurting, dull but there.

I'm writing a letter to my sister
and I can't pent more than a sentence without aching.
Without mountains welling in me, up from my deep parts through my chest and throat and mouth.

There are tears pushing past the corners of my eyes, choking love in my throat.
I love her so much, and penned words won't do. But they must.

She'll be six thousand miles and cultures away soon. Tucked in the mountains, looking beautiful and graceful in a shalwar kamis, loving her own five children and a whole village as well. With strong love, mountains of faith rising from the bottoms of her feet. Humble, servant feet who love so well.

a good woman

I'm a woman, and it's hard to know how to be one. I don't know, and no one seems to be able to tell me. Except for the men, that is.

Women it seems, ought to be graceful and diligent. Even tempered and wild at once. Tall and fit, curved gracefully. That word, gracefully. They dress well, carry themselves with distinction. Coy and honest in one breath.

They should be beautiful, they should be simple, they should be strong.
They should drink wine and point their heeled toes downward. They should have beautiful backs and golden arms and legs. Those legs, long and slender.

The picture painted is beautiful. That must be a woman.

And it's a beautiful picture until I remember why I wanted it painted. To compare- and I scratch my head through my tangled hair as I look at it. Glance at the mirror and again at the beautiful portrait before me.

And I could tell you all the ways I'm not that woman, but there's really no question to that.

I must be a different kind of woman, one who isn't filmed much or mused over. And much of me aches at that, trembles at the injustice, spits at the beauty and gracefulness of the portrait.

But maybe there is a different kind of woman I can be, and be well.
It's just a good woman. I want to be a good woman.

Tonight, the deepest roots I've tangled with, he opened his mouth wide and told me I was good. Lying, foolish, wrong, he may have been. But the words were spoken, and words hold more in them than sounds and spaces between teeth. Speak something, and you will it to be true.

So maybe that's all I want to be, maybe I can learn to be good.

a good tree

That voice, and all the words unspoken between his teeth.
It's something deeper, something that shouldn't be named.

We don't. We speak of it in lilts and euphemisms. We talk around it, each knowing, each not naming it.

Well I bloody want to name it. But each moment I want to pen it, or speak it, or even think it my blood runs cold.

I can name this at least. We are growing downwards and deeper. With little fruit, nothing but the stump left above, the wreckage of something beautiful, to show for the years and the words unspoken. But downwards we grow and the tree that was there won't come back.

But I swear I saw it marked by a red flower. I swear it was a good tree.

I dreamed I was Bukowski's women, for a night. We sat in bed sipping wine, but I kept nipping at some whiskey in the bathroom. The sheets were silk, the floor was dirty. My slip was sheer, the door was open, I felt vulnerable.

He was this strange man next to me. Not handsome, but attractive. His rough features scream at a woman like me to soften him. We talked, he ran fingers through my tangled hair. He kissed me. I rolled away and hit the lights. With him, I felt old, felt my joints ache, felt sleep heavy on my shoulders.

I slept, he didn't. I felt him get up and heard him flick the lights in the bathroom. He found my whiskey. He'd climb back into bed and roll out again. Only to walk to the kitchen. In and out and his stumble was not slow and easy like I expected from the whiskey and the wine. His stumble had a twitch, and my heart twisted with realization that he was on something else.

I was awake now, listening to his swearing and stammering. Finally the sun rose and I gave up on lying down. Let's talk, I offered. Something to soothe his nerves. And he nodded. And I talked. I told him my story and he nodded. I told him my worries and he sighed. I told him my dreams, he smiled. I asked him the same and he just lifted his glass. To any question, he either kissed me or took a mouthful of wine.

I wanted him to laugh. To break this furrowed brow and see something alive in him. Something younger. I told him stories others had told me. Finally, he laughed. And I laughed. And we talked on, kissing, sipping, laughing.