The old woman, bent and impossibly thin, skin

like parchment, exits the doctor’s

office, alone and muttering:  That was a horrifying experience.

She is bent over, white hair, gossamer

lace.  In spite of it, I almost laugh out loud, life

a cruel joke, imagining

the children in the waiting room, shivering

with the fear of it all.

 

Everyone has someone

they are haunted by, empty

eyes staring into the middle distance

of what might have been

what never was.  Loss

adds up to something

left behind.

 

A former lover

sends me a message via e-mail,

a throw-away, an aside

apologizing for what

might have been.  He’s getting

married.  A beautiful blonde

with long shining hair, both ready

to jump.  In the photo she is loaded down

with all her gear; her smiling face reflecting

no fear, thumbs up.

They are up in the air, their past lives

roaring behind them,

ready to leap.

 

 

23 years

ago.  Someone slicing

me open.  You, red-faced

and screaming, dark hair,

eyes tiny slits, still blind.

Me, sitting on the edge

you suckling.  I remember

thinking, I am tired of this, already

moving away. Your father

in the background, easy to be

patient.  One day, he said,

you will miss

this moment.  23 years

later, you

far away,

I do.

–For my daughter

If I could relive my life, backtrack

take a different route. Instead of turning away

from the mirror resigned to do what my boyfriend wanted, I would be stronger, not weak and insecure, unravelling. . .he would have eventually married me, I am sure of it now, as sure of it as I am sure of anything in this life, as sure as you.

I would have had a different daughter; you would be lost, no

gone.

If I had had my voice, if I had had my knowledge, he wouldn’t, couldn’t win that one. That voice, that choice leads inevitably to

another daughter–not you. No

you would be lost. No

gone. And me? I would be

someone else. I choose

this one, this life, you

over and over and over again.

again, this time

taking another path.

a different choice

inevitably leads to

another daughter, me

someone else.   I choose

this one,

over and over again.

People reappear,

showing up masked,

as someone else:  tall lanky Mr. Jackson

who spent half his time in English class adjusting

his junk.  Standing at the front of the room with his Scooby-Doo haircut

and disheveled tie. I had no chance.  I was

the geeky girl with no idea,

swayed by what might have been.

lost, seeing through dark curtains, smoke

so thick everything distorted,  a blurry

cartoon, swipes of color behind closed eyes.  I can’t see!

The tragic hero

showing up unannounced

in my dreams.  What poor choices would

he make next? With his mopey face and

sad eyes; and me, years

later,  tossing the past

out the window, shreds

of paper, old

love letters in the wind; words

disappear.

 

 

 

Late nights filled with empty

wanderings, voices blaring, blurring;

I come home drained, hoping for something

to soothe the day clean, like sheets pulled taut on a bed waiting.

I hear children scream, complaining, something I have done,

some word said or not said.

This dance in middle age,

carrying baggage wrapped in skin.

The door of my dream snaps open

and no one is there.  My daughter’s father

is somewhere far away,

pursuing whatever it is

that’s chasing him.  I see him

in that gray cotton bathrobe.  He smells of this

and other things.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thinning strands of snowy hair frame her face,

a helmet of gossamer lace.  Hospital corridors whisper

a past she no longer hears.  Grown children

silent in hallways, remembering different versions

of a life unfolding.  The same old story

repeated, stuck always

in the same place, their faces

like boarded-up buildings.  All she cannot see

standing in the doorway

just beyond her reach.

 

 

 

 

As summer ends I dream exponentially

about being in front of the classroom teaching

disgruntled kids who want to be there

even less than I do.  Late August and the long

endless semester stretches in front of us promising

to deliver only what we know

we don’t want: students lost in their own worlds

looking down, fingers flying, in the hallways, in the classroom.

Hall monitors slouched against the perimeter, themselves lost

not seeing or caring

about what is before them.

 

 

My dreams are more lucid in the dark.

My waking life still stumbles

over what has always been.

Summertime blurs the day, one long smudge

like looking through someone else’s

glasses, a kaleidoscope

of what might materialize

in bursts of color.  Long steamy days

stretch forever, promising more

than I will ever have.