Years ago I dated a man, an inappropriate man, one of the many charmers I related to and slept with and might have almost married, had I not discovered among other things that he believed sex for pay was a 'sport' and had no problem with the hiring of 'ladies of the night' to entertain his business friends. He did teach me one very important lesson. He was studying or had studied psychology, and he said I paid too much attention to what people said rather than what they did, and quoted that saying "Amores son obras, que no buenas razones." To illustrate the point he took off his shoe, an expensive moccasin, and started telling me how much he loved me, and everytime he said "Pero yo te quiero mucho" he would hit me on the head with the shoe... I got it the second time around (smile)...
But I have come a ways from that early girl, I talk about the past and write about it because silence perpetuates a sick society of secrets and deception; writing, talking, telling, sharing, promotes healing and is empowering. Had I been able to talk about what was going on in the accountant's house and obtain some help and not felt so much a shit I would have been much better... because somehow, even the priest agreed, it was my fault, I was one of the shitty people in the world, and somehow again, everything that happened was my fault. When we invaded Panama, one of my neighbors came looking for me to ask me why I had one it... and when I didn't get it, he said, oh, I am sure somehow it is your fault, your husband always says everything is... because I married, of course, the man who pointed out it was my fault, and have permitted all and sundry, in particular sundry, to perpetuate that myth... As a child I was la inventora de la sopa de ajo, and later on I became la madre de los tomates, and so, again, I might as well have become the alcoholic whore (with apologies to all alcoholics, whores, and other admixtures of the same...)
Qui tacet consentit, and I am not sorry and I will not be silent.
Perhaps I have underneath it all been controlling; I told my husband he would have to sign an affidavit saying he was marrying a bossy bitchy broad, but I have also practiced self-awareness for many years now. I know one of the reasons I never drank or took drugs other than the occasional wine glass or the tasting of marihuana is that I am terrified of losing control. In the occupied territories that I lived in as a child, constant vigilance and awareness were required to survive.
Finally, whether there are reasons why my own children have felt I meddled (I did laundry when it was not mine to do, cooked food when it had not been asked of me), the punishment feels harsher than warranted... there goes the criminal lawyer speaking again. I have retired, but she has not (little smile)
From another time, years ago in Pennsylvania:
and once again, whatever
everyone is writing moths spidersilk
the writing of poets from faraway
and long ago and the real ones
didn't know anymore than you
that any of it was worthwhile
they couldn't stop
words on paper papyrus the stone
of the cave was breath
...................
......
-
x
i am here on a cold two degree night
waiting for potatoes to boil, soften,
become mush, in my room with two layers
of clothing and wanting somehow
coat hat gloves inside the house
with lousy windows sliding door
icicles hanging from the corners
reading lines words the exhalations
from North Carolina or Miami, Canada
or Calcutta, my blood breath neurons linked
one giant tracery of poesy to the blood breath
neurons of one Jack or Djuana or a Kelly
or Lynette, or Ankush in his room with dog
and brother, or any of my sisterbrothers
in this dream we share, or nightmare
on some days, a common yearning
for a spray of beauty, silvery dusk,
lunar bayings of the wolf within us all
^^
^^
?
the ibuprofen i was taking
can cause hives or facial swelling, asthma, shock
i couldn't breathe at kitchen sink
one neverending wheeze-
a poem incomplete
a filament of death beside the small
delicate crocus, purple petals
bright against the icy window,
knocked head against the sink, the walls,
breath wouldn't come
thus sometimes with a poem
which is hanging in coocoon
and will not budge, my life did not
flash as they will tell you, i concentrated
on the breath that wouldn't
not with a bang a whimper but a wheeze
???????&
i played the piano in a former life
malefemale i don't know
when i forget that i am i
and sit at keyboard i can play
as if my hands were those of someone
else and when i read another's lines
until my sight blurs and the breath
from other shores is mine and i am
them li po and jack and federico
ankush and neruda tara and nicolas
guillén, i tango with djuana's
compositions, watch birds with lynzie,
grieve in laurel's oldest shoe-
it's almost finished
the ache for conversation vibrates
in the piles of slush in front of my garage
some days i question every breath
each drop of menstrual blood
each poem line or child or word
some days i am content with breath
i have no muse, not anymore,
he quit and left for warmer parts
no longer do i wake with things i need
to write or songs for my guitar
it's done
--------------------------------------------------
PROMISE FOR THE DAY: I will play at least one song on my guitar EVERY day.
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