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I’m turning 40 in a few months and trying not to think too much of it, but I am getting my bearings a bit.
Yesterday Elisa Gabbert tweeted, “I think I liked magazines more as a kid because the writing was by people older and wiser than me, with different generational interests. Now it’s just, like, writing by my friends, or people who could be? I’m supposed to pay for this? Lol”
I had a good laugh at this. It made me think that a good move at this age might be to start reading the NYTimes for Kids (which I already do) or Teen Vogue or AARP.
This would be the publication equivalent to Kevin Kelly’s advice, “When you are young, have friends who are older; when you are old, have friends who are younger.”
I do feel kind of lucky right now, to be in the middle: I have my kids and their friends for youth spies and for an elder perspective, I ride bikes twice a week with a 75-year-old who is still mad that Dylan went electric.
Everything changes, always, but I’m enjoying this age at the moment.
Thought of this one after witnessing a grown man have a tantrum in public. There but for the grace…
To the Formless God
By mid-morning the grey fog burns off Biscayne Bay.
Land surfaces, a silver glint under the veil.
I trust it’s there—I’ve seen its bottlenose before.
For years I’ve prostrated before marble, black stone, brass, burning incense, repeating
God’s name.
There is no one to ask me anything.
Rain floods the highway under construction.
The Bible says, Add enough clay and it becomes slip: sediment and water at once.
No matter how much I read, I am a city of charred rubble folding my
streets-turned-canals in prayer.
On the highway I cross the bridge.
Mist vapors up from the water like the Holy Ghost, like resurrection.
When the city burns away does sea ferry rock back to its prior self?
What becomes of the idol where there is no one to ask anything of—clay doesn’t know
itself as clay.
I’ve never been more flooded yet parched with hymns.
I strain my eyes searching the streets for dolphins.
The Garden Walls Fail
It’s summer and I don’t believe myself nor
my meds of gila monster saliva transfigured
into a chemical that lowers A1C, my summer
body buried so far in the past, it was never a body.
My overall plasticity of joint, of grey matter
long since began its decay. I once prized
your squash, salting slices, squeezing water,
breaking the web of cheese cloth. I can’t recall
what I made of all that yellow. Or your face
in marvel. We too, one summer past the summer
before, no miracle serpent to spit antidote. For now
I’m lost in the strawberries, my hands in cow shit.
The house of us stands. Renovations can wait
until next year. Yes. Next year will be better.
***
Author photo by Bryan Kamaoli Kuwada
KAMA SUTRA: CLASSIC LOVEMAKING TECHNIQUES REINTERPRETED FOR TODAY’S LOVERS BY ANNE HOOPER
¢50
Don’t be afraid to educate the Dionysian in you,
in your lover. We all have a lot to learn
about pleasure. “How to enjoy it”
should be near the top of this list.
“How to give it” should be up there too.
Think of watching a breeze move through
a flowering dogwood on a bright, hot day.
Think of pouring a bath with huge, shiny bubbles.
Don’t worry about the missing pages.
Instructions are mostly easy to follow.
Believe it or not, you can reach beyond
the skin of your fingertips. You can imagine
being a songbird flying from tree to tree.
Think of this book as a fake book.
Get a candle and a ukulele. Pretend
love has never been made quite right before.
TABLE TOP TILE SAW
$10
Was it 2Pac who said
“Every beautiful thing
contains some kinda pain?”
Maybe it was Red from
that prison-break movie.
A luxury automobile ad?
Truth is: could’ve been
Ms. Colquitt across the street.
She’s a Reiki Master and
says it’s good to get all
out of whack, no joke. Says,
it’s a fool’s dream to hope
for never-ending harmony.
Elsewise, she adds, no feeling
what harmony feels like. So
back to this table top tile saw.
It could contain the next
great je ne sais quoi,
Ms. Colquitt might say,
you just never know. And
that’s the truth, Ruth! Mister
Señor Love Daddy says that.
HALF A GLOBE (THE NORTHERN HEMISPHERE)
Free
To spare you the long sad
story explaining what
now seems like complete nonsense,
here’s the short version:
a do-it-yourself fuck-up.
Without a doubt, it could still be—
with much love and patience,
some nerve and imagination—
it could be something yet,
like a salad bowl or the new shade
for a pendant light hanging above
a dreamy kitchen island.
Of course, it’d be wonderful to have
the Southern Hemisphere back.
The equator not so jagged.
The two huge cracks mended.
And to undo the hole
drilled near the North Pole.
You just don’t fuck with magic.
That was the lesson forgotten here.
Forgotten ahead of time.
Forgotten many times.
Just don’t fuck with magic.
On the Other Side of the Door
A punch, kick, and a smack to the face
These are just a few of the acts my mind can’t erase
Taking my phone so I couldn’t call for help
Choking me so hard, barely able to let out a yelp
Locking me in the room away from my kid
These are just some of the treacherous things that you did
Taking the keys to my car while I slept so you could joyride
In it your secret rendezvous and crack habits you would hide
Having me cower on bended knee under your fist
Holding too tight of a grip on my left and right wrist
Hearing my kid call for mommy from the other side of the door
Not knowing that I’m bleeding out on the living room floor
Black eyes and neck impressions from the same hands I used to love
The next time I see them each will be encased with a glove
To leave no evidence this time—the crime never took place
No matter how many tears you saw streaming down my face
No matter how many times my kid screamed Daddy, no!!
No matter how many times you heard the word stop, and continued to go
Left for Dead
How did I end up here?
Especially at this late hour of the night
Waking up in a damp dark alley, with not a soul in sight
My clothes have been rearranged; my pants button undone
Have I been raped by this son of a gun?
Did someone slip me a mickey?
I remember having drinks, I reach up to feel a hickey
I am about to vomit right here where I sit
My body is in so much pain, much like I’ve been bit
By a venomous snake that has spewed me all over
Now a lost dog wanders by, think I will call him Rover
He approaches me slowly, after he heard my cry
Then proceeds to lick my face, ensuring it’s dry
What the fuck really went on here?
Why was I left alone in the dark, trampled in fear
And why is one of my brown boots missin’
And what is that smell, that resembles someone pissin’
I hear an ambulance on the next street
Maybe I can reach it if I beat my feet
I try to stand but my legs fail to comply
Just what has been done to me, where, and why?
I’m starting to feel dizzy, everything around me is spinnin’
I feel like a loser, not somebody who’s winnin’
I must have placed myself around company that meant me harm
As I reach around to examine my body there’s duct tape on my arm
I need help, someone please call 911
…
He chose, this time, to spare me; death would not be the sum
The days of me hanging with strangers are done, a loner I have now become
The Double Cross
I finally made the long overdue call
To my first rapist, the pedophile of them all
The one who shapeshifted my very life
And since that day I don’t trust, and have been livin’ in strife
Not knowing if you are a friend or foe
So on trees I decided it would be wise to blow
To help me escape from these dark memories
Of how he penetrated me while on his knees
He was way too big for lil’ old me
I was only five; he had eyes but still couldn’t see
They must have been in the closed position
He did things to me I’m too ashamed to mention
He sat me on his lap and we’d play pattycake
I thought it was innocent, had no idea he’d make
Me lie down, legs in the air while I’m on my back
I was the prey and he chose to attack
No one so small should have to endure
Did my mom set me up? I was not sure
Cuz she would come home and find us in the room
My body language should have alerted her, I know it said DOOM
But see, we were never connected in that way
She put dick and drugs before me since the first day
I was never her prize nor her priority
Always seen as the black sheep, always the minority
All I wanted was for her to come in and protect
Not beat on me and place a chokehold around my neck
Saying, “you want my man, bitch, you did this on purpose”
But I was an innocent child, undergoing this metamorphosis
I can’t take this pain—I was betrayed by my mother
She looked at me as the other woman, never special, just another
***
Rumpus original logo art by Luna Adler
***
ENOUGH is a Rumpus original series devoted to creating a dedicated space for work by women, trans, and nonbinary people who engage with rape culture, sexual assault, and domestic violence. We believe that while this subject matter is especially timely now, it is also timeless. We want to make sure that this conversation doesn’t stop—not until our laws and societal norms reflect real change.
Many names appearing in these stories have been changed.
Visit the archives here.
Balladeer Quatrains
This slant-ass love song is for six storeys
of cement and light and how it held every portable
us blanket-swaddled against scattering. This is
for the width of its spaces, slope of its ramps, the promise
of a place to just stop for a while in a world full
of go go go. This is for the friends on the roof as the fire-
works flew. This is for letting us wait out the down-
pours. This is for the music and the time to hear
it—Murder by Death cello pulled taught across
my days. Even in later works, Turla’s voice brings
me back (she’s a roving ghost) here. This is for all
the heys and good mornings I got to say and mean
and for the people who cannot hear them anymore
ever. This is for the weird shrimpy scent of callery pear
that marked spring in your air. But mostly, this is for the songs
you taught me to write, the curios. I’m sorry this one took so long.
By Heart
You are all chorus and no verse—catchy
and repetitive—just a few words and a rhyme.
The rabbi next door used to call you
Rice. No one knew why. Sometimes he would
mumble it like a curse, others he’d blow
it like a kiss. It was the way your head dangled
just off the pillow that told me you were
going. You had no bags to pack, no good-
byes to say. The others wondered after you
in duct tape and crayon, but never really
looked. We were more conjecture than action
then. The rabbi looked up every time the door
opened. I like to think he was waiting for you,
missed your hook, your melody. I have no
evidence. One day, he too was the crumbs
memory makes in the hall. I find myself
humming you sometimes. It is not a longing
but an echo of a longing—a tune to pass
the time.
***
Author photo courtesy of author
This was originally published at The Rumpus on June 6, 2019.
The Wind Did What the Wind Came to Do
You’ve seen the tired ceremony of felled trees.
You’ve seen the sparrows toss their dignity aside
for the hollow howl at evening’s edge,
and the humble earth saying, Here, have the night,
do with it what you please, the perfect moment
of love where an offering requires nothing in return.
Though it wasn’t love. There was the bowed trees.
There was the black clouds galloping across the sky.
There was the wind that moved as if the definition
of hunger, going and going, but going only out of habit,
nesting into that habit as we do when reaching
a familiar field, the natural gust of the body responding
to what it finds filling; patterned; rested in the chore
of passion. What if this were love, if the wind bargained
for beauty, let go of its kingdom? It must have a thirst
for tenderness—stillness in the heart. Oh surely
the distance is closing ever so slightly.
Stay inside me until the storm dies down.
Such Things Require Tenderness
Into the rain, he walks—
the rain falling like light
falls before a storm—
and he never looks back.
About storms, truly, what did I know?
I knew beauty. The clouds gathering
gray as infidelity
or the taste of it in my mouth.
No, that’s not beauty.
Before the storm, birds.
Before the birds, a discarded shirt,
a black hat with a dead rose.
This is the last time, he said.
I did what storms do: held
against the long night, made longer
by my howls and crashing,
which, by now, as he dissolves
into the cadence of rain, is only a memory.
One day, when I’m alone
and the birds make use of their boredom,
I’ll return to this place
to watch him walk again
and again into the rain
knowing I must forget such turmoil
if, by the laws of nature,
I want to grow.
—The rain is clearing.
I hold out my hand.
The Dead Are Beautiful Tonight
Even the trees are moaning.
Black bark, black faces,
and winter’s stern hand at the neck.
They say it’s the worse one yet,
but they’ve all been the same.
The dead die every year
and I think I’m too good
for such repetition. The truth is,
I’ve gained so little this season
that the things I’ve lost paint the day
a rough stillness. I don’t tell him this,
but I want my life to end.
He wants another hallelujah
in bed with me
and I don’t blame him.
Our lives are so ridiculed with desire
sometimes. I used to want the romance
of trees, the subtle blue conversation
between the sky and crows. I can’t help
but study the things that bare
my resemblance and that makes me selfish.
But the crow, headless in the bush,
has been there all week
and if I can’t bring it back to life,
what else am I supposed to do?
So much is my want
for everything black around me to live.
Where does want get me?
I have my limits, my childish dreams
barreling into the mind’s fog.
I want, but I must be careful.
A shower here or a shower there,
the trees will still be
a spider’s web of what was.
It’s true what they say about the day
disrobing into a sudden stroke
of sorrow—the poor moon,
I hear, is dying. As are the stars,
although many of them are dead already.
I unthread the evening
and he arranges on the bed
how he see fits, ready to love me
the blackest way he knows how—
salt in my mouth
light in the corners of my eyes.
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