WORDS

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

My offering today is a poem. Please remember that the poet and the speaker are not one and the same. When the speaker talks about her mother, I'm not talking about my mother, who was the soul of generosity and could churn out pies with homemade crusts like nobody's business.

And I feel I must mention that we're now up to 94 followers. I'd love to have six more of you by Christmas. Remember when we only had 13 followers for the longest time?

No, of course you don't. You weren't following then.

Infinities of love,

Lola

Words

I did not go home when my mother was dying. I feared Her power over me so I could not go. She held me captive with Words. If I had gone, I would have heard Her Words. I waited until she was dead. Then I went home.

I thought I might be Safe.

I Studied Her in Her Coffin. I've always heard that people shrink as they age, particularly if they suffer protracted illnesses. She had aged. She had suffered a protracted illness. She had not Shrunk.

But Her Power wasn't in Her size.

I looked at Her hair. The same. I looked at her hands. The same. Ears, same. Skin, same. Clothes, same. Jewelry, same. Mouth, Not the same. No Words. I began to believe she had lost Her Power over me.

I was wrong.

I try to write. I hear Nabokov, Shakespeare, Fitzgerald, Joyce, and others in my mind. I hear my own words in my mind. I try to put the words on paper. They become pathetic, weak, puny. Their greatness disappears.

I know why.

Her Words still hang in the air, overpowering mine before they can drop to the paper. 

Yet I believe in words. 

I know words in all their ugliness and in all their beauty.

I know words.

I know the power of words.

Rereading this poem now, I don't think I like it. Maybe I'll feel better tomorrow if I get a little honest bloggy criticism, suggestions, and love.

SHE'S A JUNKIE WITH A CAPITAL J (BUT SHE'S NOT ASHAMED)

She's a Junkie with a Capital J, but she's not ashamed.
Why should she be ashamed?
Her dealer's named Doctor and he writes her a chill to fight the ennui and depression.
For the occasional thrill she snorts a few from her stash of Adderall candy.
Then back down she comes with a little Valium and things look much better through the Foggieum

She and her pals, on Girls' Night Out, laugh uproariously about Mother's Little Helper.

The gals have no clue that for each Xanax they see, she drops an entire handful.

It's all so very anonymous.

They keep her weight at 109 and she knows she looks fine with her glass of red wine, taken only for the antioxidants.
She needs,
She needs,
She needs,
No, she wants.
She wants the sharp noises smooth and the loud edges quiet.
She doesn't drink and she doesn't drug because prescriptions don't count and you know it.
Why should she be ashamed?
She's not ashamed.
She's a Junkie with a Capital J.

Now that this poem has been percolating for a while, I hate it. I love individual lines but it doesn't work as a whole. It needs reworking. 

TODAY I FINALLY FELL APART

Today I finally fell apart.

I’d been threatening to do it and last week cracks started opening up in the soft skin around my finger nails.

Cracks spread like egg, broken.
Then this morning, fell off the wall.
Stress fractures.
Pieces of my shell broke off.

Walk in the door and be careful - don’t trip over right foot.
Clue to location of left foot: Dog dragged it under the bed.
Nibbled toes

Head intact in front of humming refrigerator, mouth agape thirsty for drink of my favorite blue raspberry juice.
Torso asleep on the bed.
One leg leaning against the closet seeking lead to take black lab to park.
Other leg propping open back door.
Arm One in recliner, hand holding remote.
Arm Two holding book.

I always said that if I died my body would just keep going, doing all the things it’s supposed to do.
It’s trying, but the shell is too scattered.

C’mon all the king’s horses and all the king’s men.
Gather the pieces in a pile.
Help me out here now.
Put crazy glue in my right hand.
I’ll put myself back together again.