November - Poem 11

Sacred Spaces  / Megan Bell

Instead of...

Telling me you love me, hold my face in tender hands like a prayer, chant my name softly as you wipe tired tears from my happy, overwhelmed face, as you watch me reverently sweep our floors, as I hold our son in every fiber of my body still - even though he's fourteen with the voice of a man. Worship me at the altar of the kitchen sink by scrubbing another dinner from tired pans. Wash my hair, my feet, dote on me like we're brand new and I haven't already tied myself to you and this messy life.  

Instead of...

Telling me I'm the best friend you ever had, show up at my door with all your middle-aged horror stories. I'll make a sacred space for you. Tell me about the casserole you burnt, your paint selections for a worn out living room wall, how your house plants require more attention than you can give them. Tell me how you're thirsty for something you can't name, how you want to be tended and watered, spoken to softly while you flourish in a brand-new body with no loose skin. How sometimes it all too much even when waking up next to a man who loves your marriage bed as much as you.

Instead of...

Yelling, I hate you, and slamming your door when I ask you to empty the dishwasher, maybe you could just quietly curse me under your breath, with a smile on your face, and do your job like every good little woman bred for politeness.  You aren't polite, praise the heavens you aren't polite. You feel safe - slam doors daughter, shout daughter - you feel safe. 

The True Story of Medusa / Alison Lake

She ran in to my temple,
her breath ragged, gasping,
pulling open the doors
and trying to push them closed,
but the man was there.
He burst his way inside.
He was no god, for real gods
don’t force themselves
on anyone. He was merely
a man, but that was dangerous
enough to her.  She cried out
as his hot hands grasped
her ankles and I appeared.
A mere thought from me,
and his lust fled, flowing
away like his blood
as I castrated him, smiling.
The girl, so young, so fair,
knelt at my feet, her tears
dripping onto my robes.
He was one of many.
She asked for a form,
gruesome to behold,
that would keep her safe,
that could turn men’s
desire into stone. I agreed.
And so, she searched them
out, punishing those who
would desecrate a woman.
But mortals grow old, tired,
and these kinds of men grew
In number until she asked for rest.
I turned her spirit into a wingѐd
mare and set her free. Alas,
by now all the pens were held
by men, they killed the women
who dared to write, and so
twisted the story into one
that said only what they wanted.

these bodies are just vessels / Maya Cheav

and it is something to be known beyond flesh, / beyond body parts, / beyond chromosomes, / beyond what the world expects us to be. / it is but a case of pre-packaged bones and fascia  / to store my shade in. / a jar to hold the colors of my soul. / can you see me / beyond what’s to be seen with eyes alone? / do you take notice / of my shadow in my wolfly form? / do you take notice / of what I grow in the garden, / the endless fields of figs and pomegranates / that I’ll never eat? / I know this is just the way things are / but it’s not how it’s supposed to be. / I know this is just the way things are / but what if I want more than this?

safe / Jada D’Antignac

i need alone time, i say
i need space, i say
it helps me
it’s safer
i think i’m meant to be this way, i say
i'm fine, i say 
i'm okay
i just need space
i don't want anyone needing too much of me, i say
i’m selfish, i say
i enjoy my alone
alone, alone, alone
until lonely takes over
an uglier form
a more uncomfortable form
and all i really mean
all i have ever really meant
is come love me correctly
come love me safely

The Auburn Leaves Let Go Peacefully near Baltimore  /  D.C. Leach

The sun this morning moves so lightly it seems adrift from its shadows. Passing jets leave contrails that tether the early light to the tree line, behind the baseball field, across the street. Geese pass and scatter it. Two little girls screech and chase each other like squirrels around the base of a tree. The dust rising from their feet tethers a single cloud before drifting off with the voice of someone singing. The sun this morning moves so lightly I wonder if I am awake. I would rather this not a dream. That the warm light not take its children and geese, its voices and jets. That it not leave me, alone like this, by the dark window.

Jubilee and Jane / Dawn McGuire

I.

She set me on her pillow,
told me to mind the room,
then left with that look humans get 
when they’re off to change the world.

I wasn’t jealous.
I ended up with an excellent position—
top shelf, next to a copy of Tarzan,
where I could watch the dust navigate light.

I pictured her in sweltering Tanzania,
notebook in hand:
“Branch-clasp grooming behavior continues for 14 minutes,”
while a chimp beside her thinks,
This lady needs a nap.

I missed the green soap smell on her sleeve,
the hum she made when she read.

But we all have our assignments.

Sixty-five years—
a long time to sit and think
about the secret lives of corners,
the politics of flies.

I imagined her, sun-browned, lean-limbed,
teaching humans that chimps
share nearly every bit of DNA.
I already knew; every hug said so.

When she came home,
she’d brush a thumb over my muzzle,
groom my loose threads.

She’s a legend now,
and I’m in a travelling exhibit—
her first wonder, her first friend.
People peer in:
“The chimp that changed everything.”

I just kept her company. Maybe 
that’s the start of everything.

Out there in Gombe and beyond,
her work, nearly finished,
but not all the work she began.

May she come home soon to rest,
content to be groomed by sunlight.

II.

You would have loved Gombe, Jubilee.
Early mist and mischief,
afternoons when David Greybeard
would steal fruit from my bag
and give me that look that said,
Lighten up, Jane.

At conferences, as data deepens
creases in my brow,
I still catch myself tracking 
who sits beside whom,
who offers a banana first. 

And yes,
I might have turned a bit chimpanzee.

You warned me.
But there are worse things to become.
Chimps don’t rush.

Yes—they make war,
like us.
The ancient brain we share—
wired for rage and ruin.

I’ve seen the Gombe River 
bruise itself red, tasted the water’s 
bloody bite.

But look at you! A celeb in the museum!
Your lopsided smile still teaching 
how big hopes
start small.  

And don’t think I missed 
that whisper: It’s time
to put the notebook down, my friend.

Still looking out for me.
Still my keeper.

These days I scribble less, listen more,
especially to the young
putting their backs to the work.
They understand hope is a muscle 
that resistance makes stronger.

You’d like the new me, Jubilee—
fewer field notes, more field.
A speck in the vastness of the wild.

Jane

lucky / Samantha  Strong Murphey

for 20 minutes     i thought i had cancer
20 minutes is the perfect amount      the receptionist
never should have read me results        misread me the results
i could sue      i didn’t sue       i awoke
in your 20-year high school reunion      all these years i thought you
were full of shit      but there you were       in all the stories
you’ve lived on      everyone clambering to tell me      their view
of the fight club knock-out            in Billy Dong’s backyard        
you were radiant in every version     still standing      blood on your lip         
everyone treated me like i was lucky       and i lived harder        
for a few days      loved softer        for a few hours