Heartstrings

 

One morning, 

when the feeling inside my chest 

became 

too uncomfortable 

and

too much to bear,

I punched my fist 

into the center of my sternum 

and reached around 

until I could pull out what 

was troubling me. 

In my fist 

there was my heart 

with hundreds of strings floating out of it. 

They were jabbing at the air,

stretching anxiously,

trying to connect 

to something 

that it couldn’t 

reach. 

I took my other hand 

and placed it around my heartstrings,

gently cupping them, 

trying to smooth them

down 

and back

into place

to no avail. 

They kept waving, 

relentlessly,

cutting through my fingers,

constantly, 

in search of something 

that it may never 

connect with 

again.

Pity Party

 

When the self loathing begins,

my mind opens its doors 

like a tired doorman, 

not bothering to look up, 

and allows all of the thoughts in. 

Everything 

that was said and 

everything

that was felt, 

that was unkind and 

unhelpful and

unwarranted. 

All welcomed in as if 

I was hosting a cocktail party 

that invited these thoughts, 

naming them warranted, truth, and necessary.

In that lobby, 

I sit on the couch 

and watch all my mistakes,

real or assumed, 

walk in and glance

at me. 

They begin to whisper 

about me. 

And I pull my collar further from my neck 

in discomfort 

and in escape. 

I watch them 

watch me. 

And I begin to nod. 

I begin to make myself smaller 

and make certain I am not showing 

any signs of confusion 

or anger. 

Just to only look as guilty as I am 

for ever being anyone 

that would need to be thought of 

in this way.

By me. 

And. 

I know that the guests will leave.

I will clean up their scattered.

Their remnants of scowls and

shards of cruel and

spills of ire.

I know that I will regroup.

I will put my face in a cat and

in my hands and 

in a sunbeam.

I know I will smile, 

again.

Growing

 

I checked in on my plants 

and they aren’t growing 

so very well.

When I tell you 

what an amazing 

vegetable garden I had during covid-

it would just make sense 

that I would keep trying, 

year after year, 

to get that back.

And I can’t. 

Everything is struggling 

and refusing 

and hiding behind weeds 

and hiding in the ground.

My first flash of frustration 

turned into a text to friends-

a picture of the failing. 

One  friend said, 

“I see green there…”

 which is true. 

I am cultivating green. 

I think the dirt was going to do that anyway, 

but I made the dirt soft in order 

for the green to grow.

I made the room.

The space.

And I am growing myself.

I am asking for help

and I am trying on my own

and I am standing my ground

and I am maybe believing.

I am growing hair back

and adjusting to a changing body

and wanting strength for strength,

not so much for the sleeveless dress.

(and also for sleeveless dresses)

And everything is also struggling

and refusing 

and hiding behind weeds 

and hiding in the ground-

rather, my head.

I don’t want that Covid garden back.

I don’t want that year that followed.

I don’t want to be frail

and lose my hair

and lose my voice

and lose my eye contact

and feel trapped 

and feel torn

and feel fearful.

I am cultivating.

Survival Instincts

 

My cat once injured a baby bunny.

It was out of pure instinct,

and

it made me very sad.

I understood,

though,

that the likelihood of their living 

in the same yard

successfully

would be small

and at the fault of

neither animal.

I don’t know,

in our lives,

who was the hunter 

and the prey.

I do know, too,

that it wasn't the dynamic.

Quite.

However.

I think of that day,

today.

My holding the small rabbit

as it went through its last moments

of life

while the contented cat 

walked in and out of my legs,

looking up at me.

The heaviness of knowing 

that I 

was doing what nature intended

and you

became injured in the process.

And you

were following your instincts

and I 

became hurt as well.

Both of us

caught 

in the circle.

Trapped

in our turning,

until we were

thrown apart from

one another

into our

separate locations.

Both of us

trying to recover

while staying alert

for our next steps.

Bamboo

 

I had a bamboo plant, 

small and healthy, 

for a few years.

When you came to my porch 

and you saw it, 

you admired it well.

I bought you a bamboo plant 

to keep in your home.

The atmosphere there nearly killed it.

In fact, 

we were sure it was dead 

when it was handed to you

as we packed your things 

from that home’s atmosphere 

into our car.

I placed your plant 

next to mine 

on the porch that Summer.

It started to have small shoots of green growth 

in the sunlight  

and with care.

The plants continued to thrive

on the kitchen windowsill that winter.

In fact, 

yours grew markedly, 

making mine look small 

and simple.

Back out on the porch for two more Summers.

Your plant was taller

and greener and, 

for no known reason, 

mine stopped producing anything new.

An area on the stalk 

lost color 

and I watched it 

struggle 

next to yours 

that grew.

And it was not lost on me 

the meaning 

and the message it told me.

That winter, 

when I went on the porch to set up

more preventatives 

to keep you

safe and well,

I stopped short when I saw 

that I had never 

brought in the bamboo plants 

when I moved every other plant 

inside.

Your plant 

and my plant

were left to die 

over the three seasons 

they could not handle.

The realization was sharp to my heart.

And it was not lost on me 

the meaning 

and the message it told me.

I would buy new plants,

I thought.

I would do that.

And I didn’t

because you were thriving 

in an unhealthy way.

And I was growing 

unwell and small.

You are on a smaller sill.

I am on a different porch, alone.

There are no bamboo.

You are not home.