Let's just keep it light, the world said. But then when I kicked up a rock, the soil beneath was drenched in blood.

She slithered in between the lines, reveling in the spaces, in the luscious friction between the words.

Some days, sometimes, it takes all my strength to find beauty. All my muscles, all my blood, every cell straining. And even then, some days I cannot find it.

And so she installed a zipper into her skin, right along the seam in her side where she had ripped open. So she could close it and let it heal, but then could perhaps open it again one day. Once she felt stronger.

She was like resin. She dripped through the cracks, sealing all the spaces in between.

She laid her plans out like embroidery floss, stitched together her ambitions.

I Found Her

i found her
the puppet of her
propped up awkwardly
all the bending parts collapsed underneath
recessed in the shadow
between the porcelain of the toilet
and the porcelain of the bathtub
she was folded up, like a secret
i knew she was cold, before i touched her
breathlessly still
but i had to touch her anyway
her skin like cold, white porcelain

the linoleum peeled up against her feet
yellow and plastic and slick on top
arranged in tidy octogons
underneath-
brown and jagged, crusty
half of the floor ripped up
into brown continents of shredded plywood
a strange map
of the upside down places
hey alice, where are you going?
down the rabbit hole, of course
through the bathroom mirror
she had started changing the floor, wanting a better one
maybe she tired of the yellow?
the unrelenting color of happiness
she clipped pages from House Beautiful
polished pages of polished floors
articles on how to make nooks
on how to finish things
secret passageways into better houses
armed with her putty knife
she began to excavate
pulling up chunks of yellow
the neat, lemony shapes
the color of egg yolks, the color of sunrise, the color of her little girl's hair
where was the secret passageway, into the house beautiful?
the tiny door she could, at least, maybe peek through?
folded, cold, and quiet
hidden at last
the monsters that followed her
will no longer search for her
this was just a puppet, after all
a scarecrow of my mom
made of balsa wood and oily paint
because she DID find it, finally
her way through the mazes of the map on the floor
through the little door, the dark passageway, the mirror
into the gardens on the other side
into the yellow sunlight

That Social Justice Shit

You write that social justice shit, right?
Angry art, he answered, is manufactured in blood.
The woman turned away.
But that's obvious, he continued.
It's written in blood,
but it's sculpted in flesh and bone.
The bones of children, found beneath endless piles of rubble.
It's glazed over with the tears of mothers,
canvases toned with bottles of tears, like Liquin.
Fucking trite, she said.
And painted in semen, he replied.
The semen collected for a crime lab somewhere,
for a slide in a long, dark drawer,
scraped from a person who is now just a skeleton of herself.
The clay is mixed with the ashes of charnel pits,
the ink from tattooed flesh,
the steel from bars, from cages, from floating words that read "ARBEIT MACHT FREI".
Peaceful art, he said, is made from paint.
Angry art is made from humans.
And then he shut his lips tight,
and walked away,
leaving the woman behind.

On Tolerance

I am tolerant of different beliefs, but not of hurtful actions.  And if your belief is that hurtful actions are okay, then I am not tolerant of your beliefs.

Woman at the Bus Stop

            “Oh no, I’m bleeding again.” I looked over at the woman sitting next to me at the bus stop, and she was, in fact, bleeding.  Bright red was flowering at her shoulder, dotting her white blouse in little flowerlets.  “You wouldn’t happen to have a tissue, would you?”  she asked me.  I made a visible effort to rummage around in my purse, knowing I didn’t have anything, but not wanting to appear rude.  “That’s ok,” she sighed, at my obvious futility. 

            “Are you ok?’  I asked her finally, seeing I was not going to get out of acting concerned without coming off as an ass.

 “It would be ok, except I have a job interview this morning. “
 “Are you hurt?”
 The woman sighed. “Well, I opened my heart this morning, a few stops back, and

now I can’t seem to get it closed again.”
                 "Excuse me?"  I asked.
                 "Yeah, what a pain, right?  I went to the doctor, because my heart just keeps bleeding all over the place.  He said he could close it up permanently, and many people do, because of the mess you know, but that I may not be able to have children then.  Some people can, but in my case...." and  she shook her head no.  "I tried to keep it from opening again, but as soon as I got home and fed my dog, it just started pouring out.  The doctor also said I might have to get rid of my dog."
                  "But.... why?"
                  "Why the dog?"
                  "No, why are you always bleeding?"  I watched as the flowerlets became steady streams racing down through the starchy, white fabric.
                   "Oh, it's this condition I have, with my heart.  It just.... opens sometimes.  And then I can't get it closed again.  Maybe we could stitch it up real quick?  If you helped?  I really want this job."
                     "You want me to sew?  Your skin?" I asked in horror.
                     "Or maybe superglue!  That's what they used in the Civil War, didn't they?  Or rather, they turned the stuff they used to stick the wounds back together into superglue.  Or something like that. I really should start carrying some around with me."
                     "So you WANT to close it up?"  I asked, wishing I had chosen a different bus route this morning.
                     "Well not really, because I love my dog, and I might want to have children some day.  But it would be less messy,  wouldn't it?  And would probably hurt less.  The doctor told me that most people elect to get theirs closed up so they can focus on strength training or fitness.... like, you can't very well lift weights or go running or anything with an open heart.  But I don't know, the heart is a muscle too, so I'm not sure I quite agree with that.  It DOES hurt a bit, though.  Every time I accidentally leave it open."
                      I made a show to look down the street for my bus, clicking my tongue in impatience.         
                      "Perhaps if I just wear my purse over my shoulder," the woman said.  I sighed loudly.
                      "Here," I said, taking off my shawl and wrapping it around her shoulders.  "It goes with your outfit better anyway."   
                        "Oh no, I couldn't possibly!"  she said, and the blood began to soak through her sleeve. 
                        "Please," I said.  "I'm just going to the grocery store," a lie, "and you have a job interview.  But really, you should probably get that heart thing looked at again.  I don't think your doctor knew what he was talking about."
                         She smiled.  "I will.  And in the meantime I might get it to close back up again.  At least for a little while." 
                                                                                                                                                      


                  








    

Life is messy.  Well lived lives are extra messy.

We all find our happiness in different crevices... the spaces between things... finding space to breathe.