by Kathleen MacGregor

Something’s bothering me.

In the dim, cold bathroom this morning,

I stubbed my toes as I was rushing

between getting dressed

and a time that hasn’t happened yet.

A time later in the day, the week, the month.

Almost immediately,

holding my foot, and offering my breath to the pain,

to say sorry,

I took it as a reminder to come present.

Aloud I said, “Thank you. Thank you.”

Because I was feeling thanks.

I am learning.

Now, I hear my husband stir in bed. His stirring is irritated somehow.

That cat woke him up twice last night and it’s my fault. I think. I think he thinks.

He doesn’t like the pets. He doesn’t want to be inconvenienced.

I want to hold soft warmth

and cuddle.

I am remembering before we married he told me about his childhood neighbors.

They kept homes across the street from each other.

They visited each other when they felt desirous

of each others company.

The story enraged me. What was the point?

If you’re not willing to fully

be with one another, what’s the point?

In a room so full and dim,

with irritation, blame, and unfulfilled desire

circling like sharks,

I know.

It’s easier.

It is easier than learning about

what you say in a blinding, red rage-

when your body stops, and your mind stops, and

your soul stops resisting the ancient buried hate

and anger wanting to be resurrected.

It’s easier than that.

by Kathleen MacGregor

Out on the edge of things-

edge of comfort, politeness, legality, acceptability, of “what we do”,

there aren’t a lot of arms

holding you.

There aren’t a lot of voices

reassuring you.

Because you’re somewhere

no one’s ever been.

You don’t know.

And you know

you don’t know.

You are leaning, balancing over the edge

toes tingling, gripping.

Hoping to feel some security

about the place that’s here.

The world is burning behind you.

You will surely burn with it,

if you go back.

But it might be a slow burn, smoldering and singeing.

Jumping will be a death too.

You will be changed.

Your children will be changed.

It’s time to jump, or burn.

The swirling clench deep in the belly

wants to scream the walls down.

Help me!

Wants to panic and sob with wild abandon. And throw things across rooms with brick walls-

smashing, breaking, crashing, deafening, blinding, gasping.

This is too hard, maybe it’s a mistake, go back, fall back, fall apart, I can’t do it. Take it away from me. I don’t know how.

You become the gaping, yawning hole

opening over the edge.

How can you hold a hole?

How can a hole fall

into itself?

by Kathleen MacGregor

Looking inside my basement I find dirt, cobwebs, spiders, dampness, old things. Canning jars full of unidentifiable preserves on shelves to my right. A bare bulb lights up the washer and dryer and I smell laundry soap and mildew. The air on my skin feels icy-sharp, cutting. An old rug is rolled up beneath the shelves and boxes are stacked at the back. One of the top boxes has been opened and newspaper is caught mid-slither reaching for the floor. A high window above the laundry area shows ground level behind some camellias. I hear voices, just the music of voices without the lyrics, outside the window there. Humming. The camellias are in bloom. It is February. It’s just rained and I long to pack myself away in that open box and listen to things forevermore. I’ll smile to myself in my box and sometimes cry. Or tremble with fear for the girl being scolded by her father. I’ll see the dogs jogging up to the camellias and I’ll see them piss all over the window. I’ll sleep. It’ll be fine. Fine.

by Kathleen MacGregor

The wind is wildly throwing

itself through the trees,

and the streets.

And the trees, they are bending and twisting.

Peyote dancers feeling into the world

beneath the world.

The sound is like the ocean

slamming itself against the steady shore.

Then the wind seems to inhale.

Silence.

Just like when the water goes from noisy simmer

to boil.

For a moment it’s quiet.

Then the papers fly off the tables and

the cat hides under the bed.

I can see the gold finches clinging

tenaciously to the feeder.

My legs stretch out.

And I wonder

who knows I’m here?

By Pam Bolton and Kathleen MacGregor

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.

by Kathleen MacGregor

It’s August.

September’s on the way.

This is the time

when she weighs

herself down

with lists, classes, meetings

chores have-tos and

should-dos.

A kind of lust

Has come in.

The sea wants

to carry her away

to a foreign country.

With or

without her family.

With or

without saying

Good-bye.

With or

without coming back.

No thought of returning now-

only flight.

A kind of lust,

so hard to resist.

But resisted, oppressed.

Desire.

She doesn’t know why

it has to be this way.

Or at least why

it has been this way.

Part of her is already gone.

There is a vacancy in her

face and

in her body.

She is

turning, like the leaves,

toward the sinking sun.

The draw to follow him

down.

Down to the

south.

Italy, France, Spain

Or Africa.

There.

Where the sun

never stops kissing his Earth

kisses her to death.

Desire.

Desire to walk

down crumbling stone streets

wearing high heals

which click and echo off the

ancient, mumbling walls

lined with old women in black and

children who stay up late.

Desire to hold orange blossoms

in her hand

And feel her own dress

swing and brush her legs.

To hear the voices of the men

smoking on their apartment

balconies.

The music

drifting from somewhere

just ahead.

The smells

pressing in.

Heavy, thick lust.

To feel the men wanting her.

Desire for all of them.

To abandon all notions

of right and wrong or

consequence.

The half-asleep mistiness of all of it.

A far-away question

floats by,

She doesn’t

know

How this

will

turn

out.

by Kathleen MacGregor

Sometimes

I do nothing all day

but stare out the window

and watch the garden

standing still.

Occasionally shifting her feet

or scratching behind her ear.

A sigh.

A sigh.

A sigh.

by Kathleen MacGregor

You

who laid an aching arm

across my shoulders

encouraging.

Encouraging?

Your face

peering into mine.

Asking.

Was it you?

A park

in December.

Oak trees and chimney smoke.

Did you ever know

anyone so lost

as I was then?

Lost in plain sight.

When you’re lost

you’re a different person.

You’re a lost person

who’s awake and searching.

You notice things and

you talk to people

you’d normally ignore.

There are oracles everywhere

all along the street,

on the other side

of the counter.

Taking your money.

Handing you the change.

Telling you the truth

of the universe.

How to get home.

Whether the oracle sends silence,

curses or directions,

she tells you the way home.

Make a gift

of what the oracle tells you.

It’s all in the listening.

There are oracles everywhere.

Still, I don’t know where I’m going.

And I’m no longer lost.

It’s different now.

I’ve stopped pretending I know the way.

That there is a way.

There’s just the way I’m going.

And that could change any time.

Any time at all.

One oracle said,

If you get lost, just keep turning right.

When you get used to that,

try a left and see what happens.