what I want to know is

was it my fault?

was I the one who

threw the final stone

that knocked you

off the cross and

into the compost

the one who dipped

and filled my bucket

again and again

desperate for more of you?

was I the one who

convinced you

I wasn’t reliable

wouldn’t show up

when it really mattered?

was I the one who

scraped you away

from the scene

where you stood on

the precipice

ready and willing?

the one who instead

led you down into

the garbage heap

where you still sit

and sift through

the millennia of shrinking

stinking sopping trash

imagining here you will

find the clue that erases

feeling small

and insignificant

wasted buried gone?

was I the one you

turned to

reached for

as I ran the other way

turned the corner on you

turned as soon as I

caught the yellow

of your jacket

made a left turn

because I knew you

were headed right?

was I the one who

told you to jump?

who told you not to?

was I the one?

What if I told you

It was me?

I picked up the stone

And threw it

At the bird’s nest

And knocked it down

To the ground

And all the babies died.

What if I told you

It was me?

I took the jumping mouse

From the jaws, the paws

Of the cat

And held it

Warm in my palms

Until, hours later,

It died.

What if I told you

All day yesterday

I didn’t care

And the day before

I can’t remember

Where I was or

How I felt?

I wanted to be somewhere

Else, anywhere

And I was.

I was in the nest,

On the ground,

Dying,

In my own palms.

The tug in my belly. The tears beginning, the disbelief.  How could this be happening? Why? I want this. I hate this! I want a different life. I’m free, finally free! NO! STOP! Do what I want, what I say!  Why, how, could you do this? Love someone else, want to be with her, hurt our love?  What of our love? What of me? What of our children? I hate you! I want nothing to do with you! I want you – completely. Don’t do this! Chose me. Chose me. Chose me!

I remember a night, screaming.  Throwing out into the rain that brown suede jacket, take that you bastard, and leaving. It was after the push – one push – one push too hard. Hitting the floor, feeling the pain of a rib. Nursing the pain, nursing all the hurt, nursing myself out the door, into the truck. Driving to a friend’s house. Asking the next morning what you told the children. I told them you were mad at her, you said. Bullshit! Bullshit, I tell you. Bullshit. That’s all.

Now, years later, the tug in my belly is gone, a pulsing heat in its stead. Passion replaces blaming rage. It took time to know the Universe was behind me all the way, that the rays of the sun still shone on my corner, and drew me forward, the earth pulling my roots to places beyond, deeper than the oak outside my house, that a chapter I wanted to write began that night. A life more true, my own. Not so reliant, dependent. No more following a script we both had bought. Thank you. Now I remember  - I always love you  –  always.   

And old.

Fierce wind

whips  ‘round me,

loosens and scatters

the dried leaves

of weary, winter fears

and leaves me

almost naked.

Everyone,

anyone

can see me!

No full-grown leaves of modesty

to cover my blemishes,

the turn of my limbs,

my knobby wrists and elbows.

My begging arms,

my ancient, grounded roots

apparent.

I tremble,

springing

with the rush of air.

Shake with the dread

of being judged

 too big.

Cut down.

Shake and shake

until I know I want

to grow again.

My new leaves flail,

lit with an urgency

to reach and move,

show off, hang on,

roll with the punching gusts.

I begin to enjoy this ride,

this freedom, and my leaves’

determined grip,

their laughter as they clap

green hands together.