On Track

predictable
weak days

lines dead
and timely

through
motions
i navigate

repetitious,
sure; on track

round-trips
comfortable,
blurred

days
off-rail
frighten

internal
wheels
seize

a landscape
unknown;
possible

Mourn

oh, how long
history lasts

passed

shame literal
as eye color

folklore like
a birthmark

if-this, then-that

i turned
out inside
the self
that is my

layered flesh
like safety

curved smile
of female hidden,
unadored

the artifact
buried,
neglected

my sad loss;
reason to

For some reason tonight, putting my clothes away, I felt compelled to write what the poem above is about. I have more clothes than I think I do; when I've done all of my wash, I'm surprised. I usually end up feeling I'm wasteful and have a sense that each item is an attempt to cover, disguise, and hide "me."

The poem above is about women. Our strength has been wasted on survival, which takes a toll. It's hard to go along, to avoid, to keep peace, and sometimes, to remain safe and to be protective.

The lesson was passed on that our bodies were something to fear; our power was denied or we handed it over, our beauty too risky, and our desire for love, acceptance, and respect, selfish and unwomanly. We tend to be fairly good mothers; but we can't mother ourselves. In doing that, we do fail as mothers. Many of us have been abused, punished, neglected, and abandoned. We've repeated cycles that we didn't even know existed, and have had almost identical experiences generations apart. Our stories are not unlike so many other women - past and present.

This poem is one attempt to mourn the loss of the beautiful female; and an attempt to rediscover and celebrate her. The weight I've learned to carry is the weight of our collective sadness. It no longer serves me - it's "reason to."