Feral

 

I have always had an affinity for feral cats,

the more feral the better, really.
Something about the fear in their eyes
spoke to the deepest parts of my soul.
Perhaps I presumed
I could make their lives
a bit easier.
Being a nurturer at heart,
it came so naturally
to love them completely,
including the unlovable parts.
 
I imagined I could make
these feral cats
a bit more gentle
and, maybe, just maybe
tame them in the same way
the Little Prince
tamed his Fox
so wheat fields
would suddenly have meaning,
except my hair is not golden
and it was not a fox
I last attempted to tame.
 
My most recent attempt

will be my last,
for of all I have helped, cared for,

and loved,
that one,
the last one,
eviscerated me….when I least expected it.
Granted, I wasn’t at my best at the outset;
going into this particular
feral feline rescue,
my heart was already road weary.
I was fatigued, not on my game,
and less watchful than usual.
Had I been whole, I believe
I would have seen the signs earlier and
avoided the worst of the damage that came my way.
 
That last untamed cat
lulled me into a sense of safety.
for a time.
She had my whole being in the palm of her hand,
my heart utterly hers.
Likewise,
she had nestled into the comfort
of my chest, my belly, my arms
her claws sheathed
and her volatile temper
tucked away.
There was a sense of calm and knowing,
but only for a while
for those temporarily tamed,
return to the wild.
It is only a matter of time.
This one,
the last one,
went feral again without warning.

Then again, once feral, always feral, right?

Having cultivated impermanent trust with other wild felines,

I should have known better.
 
I was already open, raw, and defenseless
but this did not deter her first attack;
there were many which followed.
I had curled into her in the same way she had curled into me,
so I never saw it coming.
As was our routine, she came calling late at night
to rest or feed on the bounty of my care before retiring,
but instead of the usual
curling and unfurling of dark fur against my skin,
razor teeth sunk deeply into my shoulder,
one of several places she used to rest her frightened and fatigued head.
Terrified, she clawed her way out of my heart leaving
me, stunned and hemorrhaging in a crumpled heap,
watching lifeblood, hers and mine, trickle
down my breasts,
over the curve of my belly,
and pool between my thighs.
 
This cat,
the very last feral
I will ever invite into my warm and welcoming world,
bit the hand that fed her,
cruelly clawed her way free,
and now, I suspect,
feels more lost than ever before.

~ Mk Michaels, 2015

On Children

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you. ~ Kahlil Gibran

I first heard Kahlil Gibran’s 'On Children' long before I had children. They were sung by two dear friends, Joyce and Jacque, who as singers and a songwriting duo created some of the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard.  Although they did not write On Children, their rendition of the piece set to music resonated in my heart long ago and has remained there to this day.  These words, still heard in my head and heart in Joyce’ and Jacque’s voices, have defined how I parent.  As the mother of two children, a daughter (19 years old) and a son (nearly 15 years old), I am so incredibly proud of the people they are and that they are completely comfortable finding their own way, even if it is not my way. 

It has not always been easy to strike the balance between empowering my kids and keeping them safe; sometimes we have had clashes between their desire to be authentically themselves and my own fears for what their choices might bring into their lives, but we always found a good middle ground.  By and large, they have made really good choices and, in the course of this, they have become independent, kind, hard working, and confident young adults.  We have been through a lot together, my children and me, and there is no doubt we will go through more of this life being individuals who are entirely connected.  ~ Mk Michaels

Playing House

Ever since I was a child,

I loved playing house
in so many different ways.
 
Barbie was a big deal, of course.
From the Barbie camper
under my 8^th Christmas tree
to the plastic Barbie dream house
Santa brought my sister
(and I envied)
the picture perfect pink
idea of 'Home'
was imprinted in my heart
complete with picket fences,
keeping the good in and the bad out.

Although not a house specifically,

as a pre-teen I built forts along the creek
which ran behind our house.
My sister and friends swung across the creek
on the thick vine draped
alongside our homemade Batcave.
In the thick, buggy heat of
the South Carolina summers
we played Batman.
Bobby and Johnny were Batman and Robin, respectively.
My younger sister got to be Batgirl.
Being the oldest, I was Batwoman…
although at the time, I wasn’t convinced
Batwoman was a real super hero.
Eddie, the ‘poor’ kid from down the street
was always the willing bad guy
We chased him whether he was the Joker, Riddler, or Penguin.
Eddie drew the line at playing Catwoman.
I had such a crush on Eddie and
recall one summer he and I pretended
we were dating.
Batwoman and the Joker, an unlikely pair,
but we made it work
for a summer.
 
As I grew older, I made new homes.
 
In my late teens and early twenties,
my dorm room was a sight to behold
and a place for friends to gather.
I was the only one who color coordinated
the fold out couch, in case I had guests,
with the ribbon festooned grape vine wreaths
hung on the walls
alongside the Georgia O’Keefe prints
beneath the stenciled border
I had painstakingly painted
at the beginning of the school year.
A wicker rocker with a
pink, white, and periwinkle cushion,
so everything would coordinate,
rounded out the décor.
Had there been a tour of dorm rooms,
there is no doubt mine would have been on it.

In my mid-twenties, I met a woman I loved

and together we created a home
on our shoestring budget.
We were more broke than broke
and often laughed that we were too poor to use the full word;
so we would stop at ‘po’…
some weeks we were simply ‘p’
but we laughed often
and created a home with the hodge-podge
of furniture we brought together.
The lack of coordination troubled me,
but I made the best of it
and creatively decorated our home
often dragging home treasures found
in other people’s curbside discards.
It worked and, occasionally, I will
come across a knick knack from that time
and smile.
 
Happiness has a way of fading in the face
of reality, fatigue, and complacence
so in my forties I left and ventured out on my own.
In this, I created yet another home.
Colors bursting everywhere,
no two rooms the same,
warm and welcoming,
filled with trusted friends, laughter, and love
it became my nest, my haven, my home but
for more than a decade
in spite of inviting others to share my heart
none were deemed fit or chose to remain.

Until you came along in my fifties.

Our early conversations were filled

with hedges;
     If…
     Maybe…
     Some day…
     Perhaps…
Quickly though, the hedges were trimmed
and eventually, eliminated.
 
Conversations come more easily now;
     When we...
     We will…
     Let us…
     I do…
The walls are beginning to tumble down,
The demolition of impediments has started
and I realize,
I am no longer playing.

~ Mk Michaels, 2015