No More

I don’t really write about you anymore. I take this as a good sign.
For me, writing is relevance and you are no longer,
except in hindsight.
What remains;
gratitude for lessons learned,
thankfulness for growth,
relief that I am done hurting
about you.

Today is your birthday.

Although it means nothing today,
of course it is remembered
because I spent so many years
looking for ways to make it special,
making sure I remembered it was the 18^th.
(not the 15^th as my mathematical brain attempted to imprint)
Looking for ways to win you over,
bring you closer,
bring you home.
Thank heavens you never
came home for long.

Fits and starts,

ecstasy and anguish,
off and on,
again and again.
We tried to be us so many times
over the better part of a decade
(or two and a half depending on how you define ground zero)
that I lost count.

After nearly four years of silence

you called out of the blue.
There were exactly
three possible reasons;
one ~ someone had died
two ~ someone was sick and might die.
three ~ you were checking the forecast
to see if I’d open the door
and you could pretend you’d beat it down
to get to me.

You always said that

had you known how I felt,
you’d have beaten the door down to get to me.
The thing is, you did know.
you knew and yet
my door remained unscathed.
I, on the other hand,
bore more scars than I care count;
a nervous tic at the sight of your name,
a cannon ball sized hole in the center of my belly,
a heart torn in two,
the well of my plenty poisoned
so any invaders would be sickened
and diminished in strength.
Time heals though
and the well of my plenty is full again
and crystal clear.

Your voice coming through the phone

was like sandpaper against my cheek,
fingernails on a chalkboard,
the screech of a train derailing.
As if that wasn’t enough,
there were your words.
Instead of dripping with honey,
as I remembered,
they stung like battery acid,
peeling a layer of flesh off you
and I saw the ugly of you,
perhaps for the first time.

Upon ending that conversation,

not only was the well of my plenty clean and clear,
but in being baptized
by the scald of your spite,
I was too.
 
~ Mk Michaels, 2014 

 

To be continued...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

You are:

~ a vacation in the middle of a hectic Wednesday

~ a pinhole, without threat, in my protective shield
~ a quiet haven, far away from the fret and fray
~ a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup, even when I don’t have a cold
~ a soft spot on which to rest after passing through my fear
~ a strong and yet tender hand to hold and be held closely
~ a passion, unmatched
~ a person, place, and thing to be continued…

 

~ Mk Michaels, 2014

 

 

 

Twisting the Knife

 

Having spent too many consecutive days

swatting at mosquitoes,  

Honors’ Night for our daughter drove the knife home.

It pierced my left kidney and,
spurred on by a series of life milestones,

a slow hemorrhage began. 

A second Honors’ ceremony,

proudly applauding our son’s accomplishments.

(he is becoming a man without you here)

The Spring Musical,

as I sat in amazement

watching a 13 year-old entertainer

take the stage by storm.

(in continuing to live, he shows more courage than he knows)

Milestones,

each a twist of the knife

embedded in my belly.

During our daughter’s graduation,

I sat alone, an empty seat beside me,

the result of traffic and poorly planned logistics.

“This is as it should be”, I thought.

An empty seat for our daughter’s other mother.

You were there; I felt you.

(you should be here, damn it)

It was comforting

and yet the knife twisted a bit more. 

I keep my poker face on,

smile through the anemia setting in and

bite the inside of my cheek

to keep from crying.

Sometimes though, I can’t bite hard enough

and the tears fall.

I am lousy at poker, really. 

The milestones aren’t over.

There is so much more to come.

Scout's 18^th birthday.

(i remember her first and how you smiled and

allowed me to overkill, making it an event way beyond her years)

My 50^th.

(I already miss your teasing in spite of the mere 7 months difference in our ages as you did for my 40^th)

The end of another school year.

The beginning of another…

(i can hardly think of that now)

 In August, I will take our daughter to college,

so far away.

Too far and yet this is where her heart leads her,

so mine will follow

(as I know yours would have too)

moving heaven and earth to make it possible.

I will support her from afar,

sending and receiving care packages
and limitless texts,

missing her warm cheek late at night

when I forget and wander into her room to tuck her in.

(you would understand this, I know)

The knife will twist again and still

I will keep my poker face on

until the day is done.

My gut twisting in agony,

my belly will fill with blood

in the dark of night. 

There will be other milestones.

A lifetime of them, in fact.

(why aren’t you here to commemorate them too?)

I really can’t think beyond August, though.
I can barely think that far ahead. 

Maybe I’ll just think about it all tomorrow.

(i miss you.)

 

` Mk Michaels, 2014

Tipping Point

The pressure builds over time.
A whine here
A death there
Demands for
parts of me everywhere.
There is no relief.
I am certain to break
into a million pieces.

Accepting help

seems more
work than it is worth
because first,
I have to admit
I can’t handle it all.
Following the acknowledgment that
I am not omnipotent,
the help must be evaluated.
How much will this really cost me?
Familial help is often the most
expensive, followed by lovers,
usually.
Not always though.

The anger rises.

Tracing back,
I am usually
at the root of it,
but this is hard to stomach,
so I will swallow it,
deflect it,
dive into a project,
or hit the batting cages.
I used to pick fights, but
I am too powerful
and inflicted too much harm
so I don’t anymore.

People say they understand,

but I don’t believe them.
Pets are not kids.
Part time kids are not full time kids.
Hobby jobs are not
full time single-income jobs.
Parenting children is not
parenting grieving children.
I smile and thank them for their
compassion when I really
just want to scream.

Some days,

I want to run away.
Go into hiding.
Buy a burner phone
and not give the number
to anyone.
I want to wrap an expensive silk scarf
around my hair,
wear oversized sunglasses,
rent a steel-grey convertible,
and drive too fast for hours,
pretending not to be me.

I want to end the day’s driving

at a far away destination
where no one knows me,
clean up, dress up,
get picked up,
and have a fling.
Or maybe just take a nap.

But here’s the thing,

In time,
in a week or a day or an hour,
I’d want to come home.
I’d want to come home
to my kids, my dogs, cats, and chickens,
to my friends, family, and neighbors,
to my piles of laundry,
my empty refrigerator that needs to be filled,
my house needing to be cleaned,
and the endless demands on me
because even though there are moments
when I reach the tipping point
and I want to burn my life down,
I love it.

~ Mk Michaels, 2014

Carnival Fun House

You came, telling me my siren’s song had drawn you near.

Beckoning me to enter the Carnival Fun House
I entered willingly believing all I heard,
wanting to hear the fairy tale again and again and again.

Lured by your long lost song,
brightly lit, flashing lights, and
calliope tunes lending their accompaniment.
Clever mirror tricks distorted your truth.

You cautioned me

            take care of the little girl,

so wounded by love and life that

she could pull me under as she drowns

Take care of the little girl who loves me so much that it frightens her.

She will be kind.

She will never stray.

…..unkept promises, like so many others

Threading gently around your tattered edges,

I fed your poverty with words of

exultation, adoration and acts of undulation

knowing, because you told me and I believed, that one well intended tug could unravel your emptiness.

Not knowing that the well intended tug could also send me into your oblivion.

populated by so many others,

good company if you must ask – beautiful women, whole in their core save the

raw and gaping pit left in the wake of your destruction.

Your grief is strategic,

because “sometimes you simply must bear that burden alone…”

you are afforded the autonomy to

deceive, lie and steal away into the night with yet another victim.

Nights of passion unmatched….we said.

Both of us were playing a part, you know.

Truth was lies and lies were truth,

passion was perversion,

and I fell deeply into you.

Temporarily losing my senses, I was struck blind.

Seeing only your reflection in the concave mirrors,

you were larger than life.

The world was my oyster, you said,

a gift from you to me.

But upon closer inspection,

the shell was empty;

no pearl, no mother of pearl even.

Empty.

You spun and twisted and wove your contorted tale

of unicorns, long lost love and lies,

of Dylan, Baez and heavily Dosed Chili Peppers

of soul mates, music and happily ever after

of children, babies and family forever

of childhood stories of monsters lurking in the dark

and illness, slights and hurts

of daisies, butterflies and a wheaten Little Prince

I surrendered to your tale giving you all you lacked;

children, a womb and another notch in your perfect score.

But something was amiss;

too many unraveled ends,

too many unmatched cards, and

too many unanswered riddles with twists and tattered turns.

Shoddy work….

too many unreturned calls,

too many days at a distance,

too many weekends in woe, and

too many promises and privileges pulled away.

Too many, lover, too many.

So I questioned and puzzled and pondered

and was harshly scolded.

Coldly, callously,

sadistically kept for weeks at a distance

while you enveloped yourself in another’s care, but

not the one you profess you craved for your cure,

instead the personification of the Weakness in You,

kept local, kept close, kept and never left behind.

I stood stranded at the top of the Eiffel Tower,

confused, afraid and frostbitten

by the arctic freeze you blasted my way.

I blew warm breath through my hands to try to

clear the glass so I could better see you again,

my lovely long lost lover.

The heat of my breath collided with the frozen glass

and shattered the contorted Fun House mirror

into a thousand pieces

showering sharp slivers and shards

scratching and slicing and dicing me to ribbons

….and suddenly I saw you clearly

and realized that the monster you’ve feared in the dark….

was you.

~ Mk Michaels, 2007

When She is Ready

This thing

with you

is still being defined,

but even in its infancy

it runs deep.

 

Linear time

ceased to exist

from our inception

and I feel I have known you

forever.

 

Both bearing scars,

we are

watchful,

cautious, and

vigilant,

but unfolding all the same,

bit by delicate bit.

 

I find myself wanting

to protect and

be protected,

to nurture and

be nurtured,

to listen and

be heard.

 

Perhaps we are

balanced

after a lifetime of tipped scales,

equals

following too many inequalities,

closers

and we’ll settle no more.

 

Only time

knows

and she will tell

when she is ready.

 

~ Mk Michaels, 2014