My pain dwells in the space Between lower back and upper legs Where the holding meets the doing The hinge that screams For oil, for ease, for new Screws to tighten up my will I have opened these hips Again, and again and again To engulf some and release others My hips cry, oooooh. What have you done for me lately? I wanna be the one in control.
gender
Seasons of No Part 2
When I tell you "no" The pumpkin valley replete. A feast of orange When I tell you "no" The sun thaws wood fibers Let the sweet sap flow When I tell you "no" A forgotten bulb erupts like resurrection When I tell you "no" Singing insects harmonize Deep lullaby rest
Choir
They are exalted kisses reaching up into the heavens.
They are clarion oxygen invisibly bound to an iron core.
They are treetops rooted, reaching – wings’ resting-place.
They are magma veins pulsing beneath, between, and beyond.
—-
Synchronous harmony.
Emulsified spectrum of visible light.
No one piece exists in isolation.
They are the whole damned choir.
He Feeds Her
He loves his babies. Always has. His hands perfect for holding small heads. His long flat chest a place to rest and hear the thump-tha- thump just like it was in mommy’s tummy.
I hated breastfeeding. Never enough milk. What did come was so often vomited back onto those bags I lugged heavily on my frame. She’d scream with acid pain and empty belly.
He’d soothe her patiently. Rocking, and shushing and swaying. Cooing, and patting, and humming. Loving her with every inch of himself. She’d sleep fitfully. Reluctantly convinced into rest.
Midnight feedings were hazy nightmares. He wanted to help. But the best milk was in me.
Breast is best. Breast is best. Breasts are beasts. Breasts are beasts.
After each feeding, I’d wake him, saying, “Take her. I can’t do this anymore.” He’d rouse himself. Sweep her up in the darkness. Pour sweet nectar into her ears.
Delirium twisted mother’s milk into mother’s bane. But the shame, the shame seemed worse than this. The shame and the failure:
A stay-at-home mom who does not breast feed.
Unspoken damnation whispered into my mind’s eye. “You’re a bad mother. Selfish. Weak. She will suffer forever. It’s all your fault.”
He said, “You don’t have to. It’s OK. Don’t listen. I love you. You’re good. You’re good.”
No. You’re good. I am bad.
He said, “I want to help. Let me help. Let me feed her. You can rest. You can sleep. No more pumping. No more soreness. Let me help.”
Every day for months, we three danced this way. And I felt myself pushing away from the child so waited for. Now, so hungry, always so hungry.
And me with nothing left to give.
So I let him help. Knowing I was bad. She would suffer. He would leave me. All good things, as they say, would come to an end.
But instead.
When the clock struck 10 I’d be fast asleep. A night-owl, he stayed up for the midnight feed. And I, the early bird, took the 4 am, happy to be with my girl.
So rested, body mine, no pumping, no resentment. Just the everyday trials of new parenthood – shared equally by two.
My burden had lifted. And his was increased? Would his baby love stay so strong in the face of the feeds?
When I asked, he said, “You don’t understand. You have given me a gift.”
“I hold her in my arms, bottle in hand, and she looks at me. I see in her eyes something different, something new, something real.”
“‘You feed me.’ she says, without words.”
“I am her father, and I feed her. Don’t you see? We men are not supposed to feed. But I want to feed her. I need to feed her.”
He feeds her. To this day, he feeds her. And she knows it.
And we are all free.
Gender play
“A surprise for me!!!”
Little Brother third birthday
and the first present arrives.
“Cool! It’s a robot!!”
“Open for me!”
Big sister five lingers nearby.
Her two-months-passed birthday
still fresh in her mind.
“Ooh. A TRANSFORMER!!
Can I play with it too?”
She sits close to her brother, with watchful eyes
Eventually, Almost Three loses interest in his prize.
He says, “I want to cook with Mommy!!”
Runs to the kitchen. Clambers up the stool.
“Bowl please! Want some water please!
Want spoon please! Man spoon!”
Alone on the floor now,
Sister works the cast off prize.
She has figured it out.
Put on the wings.
Make him fly.
Little Brother wants Man spoon.
I pull out a teaspoon.
“Nooooo!” silly mommy!”
I pull out a tablespoon.
“Noooo.” He rolls eyes.
I pull out a long-handled ladle.
“Yes!! That’s a man spoon.
Raaaaawrrrrr!”
He growls as he stirs .
She sings as robot flies.
The next morning
Big Sister’s sighs.
“Mommy, are there any
princess transformers?”
“I don’t think so.” I say.
She is unsatisfied.
“I know!
A Cinderella robot…
that transforms…
into a carriage!”
Her idea makes her smile.
And that same morning,
Little Brother carries
robot into school.
On his right hip,
gently cradling him,
Just like mommy
used to do.
Portrait Part 2: Beauty Marks
We are the face that glows with memory and prescience.
Our eyes hold galaxies and the moistened soil after a summer rain.
Our hair finds the tempo of your heart and matches it.
Our feet reach down into the earth’s core and burn.
Our legs rise like columns bracing the temple of our torso.
Our torso swells and recedes like the tides.
And when you meet us, our soul reaches out
to yours and says, “We welcome you, be at peace.”
————————————————————————–
NaPoWriMo 2013; Day 17
Portrait Part 1: Flaws
Duck feet, square hands.
Jelly roll around the waist.
Board butt on thunder thighs
looks as though she dressed in haste
Pocked face, apple-shaped
lips too thin to pencil in
bulbous nose, lopsided ears
one hair growing on my chin
Once long hair now falling out
dyed to hide the graying crew
knees that sound like breaking twigs
Feeling older than I knew.
—————————————————————————————————————————————
NaPoWriMo 2014: Day 16
What happens?
What happens to girls is this:
First we bleed, we bud, we bloom.
We become some thing that attracts attention.
We become boobs, butt, legs, body.
We become an opening to be filled.
We become woman.
This is what happens.
What happens to boys is this:
First you look, you lust, you lunge.
You learn to take what you want without asking.
You learn to stalk, to hunt, to trap.
You learn to kill for pleasure.
You learn to be man.
This is what happens.
Then the sky fills with poison gas.
Then the mountains consume themselves in flame.
Then there is nothing but vultures circling.
And the dust settling
on what we were meant to be.
More than woman. More than man.
Curse these forsaken forms.
This is what happens
to us all.
———————————————————————————————-
NaPoWriMo 2013: Day 1
Jai Meerabai
Something about her captivated me. Her waist was so narrow I thought it could fit between my thumb and pointer. Her eyes were wide and earnest and far away. She was enraptured, tortured, swimming in the deep waters of pain and love. Her soul married Krishna, a Hindu God, butter thief, lover of women, and consultant to Kings, when she was five years old. Her parents later married her body to a powerful lord, but she remained faithful to Krishna in her heart.
Her love for Krishna over family led to her being ostracized and attacked by her powerful in-laws. Krishna protected her from these assaults. He turned poison to ambrosia. He transformed a bed of nails into a bed of roses. Venomous snakes became garlands of flowers. She fled her in laws home and traveled the country, composing hundreds of song in praise of Lord Krishna. She became famous for her beautiful songs and the purity and strength of her devotion. She grew old but did not die. She spent her last moments on earth performing rapturously in front of a crowd of hundreds, collapsed at the feet of a statue of Lord Krishna and vanished.
Meerabai. Poet- saint. Chanteuse. Her Raags are still performed today.
I met her in a comic book when I was 8 or so. She was a beautiful illustration of a woman in love, a persecuted soul, a spiritual leader. I fantasized myself into those pages. My long eyelashes drooped sorrowfully and a playful half smile formed on my lips. I held my veena to my body, caressing the strings with a passion that I could detect but did not yet understand. I would name my daughter Meera in hopes that she would follow in the footsteps of this tragically mortal woman immortalized in pastels and word blocks. She was more beautiful than Cinderella, braver than Snow White, and more tortured than Belle. She was my fairy-tale princess. She was better than a fairy-tale princess. She was a real person.
In my 20s I worked as a rape crisis counselor and prevention educator. As a counselor, I was surrounded by women in love, persecuted, and tortured. Their lives were not romantic, beautiful tradegies. Life was painful, complicated, and real. As an educator, I spoke to hundreds of teenage boys and girls. I talked about the power of stories and the messages in fairy tales. I wanted them to know that love did not have to equal pain and abuse. During those years, I thought often of Meerabai. Her story glorified pain and suffering. I would not name a daughter after her. I did not even know if I wanted children anymore. Comic books and fairy tales were fantasies concocted for and by men. For a time, I let Meerabai go.
She has been calling to me lately again. There is an itch inside of me. A place in my mind that flashes her picture. A small voice in my head trying to remind me of this one thing – Meerabai was no fairytale. She was a real woman.
She was born in 1498AD. She wrote hundreds of songs that are still sung today. She refused to join her husband on the funeral pyre. She left her family to wander the country. She sang to crowds of hundreds. She challenged the priests of the day with her devotion and piety. She did not heed the words of men because Krishna was the only true man. These are the things we know about her. How much more is there that we do not know?
I want to know the herstory of Meerabai. I do not want to be her, or name my daughter for her. I do not want to fetishize her or idolize her. I do not want to know the comic book version of her. I want to know her pain, and her resilience, and her conviction and her insanity woman to woman. That is the story I can learn from. That is a story I can tell my children. Meerabai lived.
I did not know I was beautiful
I did not know I was beautiful when the photographer taking pre-school pictures said, “Aww. Your hair is so long. What a beautiful little Hawaiian girl. Say “Aloha”.
I did not know I was beautiful when I went to the beach and all of the other kids had to wear sunscreen to keep from getting too dark.
I did not know I was beautiful when it was fitness week in my fifth grade class and we all had to weigh ourselves and I weighed over 100lbs.
I did not know I was beautiful when my mother caught me looking nervously at my pre-teen reflection in the mirror and asked me, with fear in her voice, if I wished that I was White.
I did not know I was beautiful when I was the only one of my friends who did not have a date to homecoming.
I did not know I was beautiful when my highschool boyfriend told me that he could not get too serious because I was not Christian.
I did not know I was beautiful when my Asian college boyfriend dumped me and started dating my White roommate.
I did not know I was beautiful, but I was.
So I started wearing my nose ring and the sparkle offset my eyes.
So I got a tatoo over my heart reminding me of what lies inside.
So I learned to care for my body with kindness, and attention, and movement.
So I surrounded myself with people whose beauty radiated from within.
Then my boyfriend said, “I choose you, and choose you, and choose you.
Then I heard friends say “Your daughter is so beautiful. She looks just like you.”
I did not know I was beautiful, so I made myself feel beautiful, and then people told me I was beautiful, and now I know that I am beautiful… sometimes.
american incarnations 