Stuffing

Stuffing

Compacted

Thoughts and Hopes

To the absolute edge.

Don’t touch me

For fear

I would lose my balance-

This cirque de suburbia,

I am not sure any of it fits.

She's still within
waiting to be touched
that she knows It's alive.
Needing as much
to feel the pulse,
the life,
the breath on the body of It,
the hint
that all along
among the cries
she lived.
Waiting beside
a stand-up,
a hero,
child-bearing woman,
a wife,
It always sat.
Waiting
in patience,
only a whisper
now and then
to remind the world
of It's presence,
and that a new revolution
was never
out of the question.
The new battle
has more than two sides.
There are lobbyists
and diplomats
and a mama back home
sending care packages
that withold
the dream -
That pulsing legacy that
A Mother Is Still A Woman
The woman within,
waiting in patience,
only a whisper
now and then
"The revolt is near,
It's a new revolution,
Wear a flower in your hair."

Everyday is a revolution,
Uprooting
everything I knew
to be True
just yesterday.
And at least I know now
to hold loosely
to this day,
as tomorrow
will change me again.
I am part of
this revolution, every part.
And yet I am
just a part
of this revolution.
I do not own this one.
It is not mine.
This is a revolution of Grace,
and not just Grace.
It is God's
and goddess'
and my own Mom's.
I am part and just a part
of Life's Great Revolution.
It brings days of
fighting loudly,
and loving deeply,
crazy anger and angst,
peaceful understanding,
and Wisdom.
"life's longing for itself"
brings on
the uprooting of our identities
the outpouring of,
of everything,
everything we have understood
before we gave life
to the world.
And in each day,
with each sunrise,
and even on grey winter days,
The Revolution begins again.
We begin again.
As I hold loosely to Grace
to my Self,
poured out,
I begin again today
more at peace
with my gods and goddesses,
my mother,
my child,
and my Self.
This is my revolution.

Peeling off layers
like old paint
over wallpaper
behind the cabinets.
Somewhere beneath
motherhood
and the part time jobs
and betrayals
and americanos,
stands a body
that does not need
justification.
She can lay naked
relaxing comfortably
in the Open.
The tightness in her jaw
releases
the lined brow
straightens
the hips bruised by childbirth
and toddler-bouncing
come into Balance.
Once more
she finds a distant height
unfamiliar now
so that its new -
the novelty of that
is amusing
exhilarating.
Peeling off layers,
finding hidden colors
she just remembered
are her favorite.

Mostly confidence
a little audacity
You wouldn't think
it'd take that
to make love to my husband.
After a toddler
and two years of opposing schedules
it takes a little more
than
a single horny moment.
We lost track of
one another's sleep pattern:
where once we woke together
mid the night,
making love through dreams,
we now wake and wonder
if we've ended up in the same bed.
In the mornings, we'd have slept
deeply enough
to give another hour
to each other's body.
It's hard to believe
when just this morning
our toddler's learned to say
"wake up papa, mama," climbing in
as we grasp for one more
moment of sleep.
So it takes a little courage,
after I've said goodnight
and gone to bed,
to reemerge without my winter robe
in undies that tie on the sides
that somehow survived the
post maternity closet overhaul.
Audacious to assume that
my husband
might have
the energy, let alone desire,
to rise from the couch,
and meet me.
And yet there we meet.
Exhausted, yes.
But hungry still,
knowing that if we don't
consume
this moment,
the sleep won't help anyway.
Not tonight.