My Mother’s Laugh, 2017

My broken ears healed to the sound of my mother’s laughter;
even before my hearing aids clicked on, it was how I found what I sought after.

In grocery aisles: lost, exposed, and alone,
her bells would break through, calling me home.

It was as if her womb knew it contained a soul already a little battered,
knew how to overcompensate in the only way that could have mattered.

And when I was chosen and growing in warmth and comfort,
it was her laugh sounding through that awoke me from my slumber.

Four years later, with new devices in my ears,
finally I was able to listen to everything there was to hear.

I tuned into birds chirping, trees rustling; everything sounded crisper,
And I began to hear the words people kept to themselves, a whisper.

“She’s so loud,” “I could hear her coming from a mile away,”
“I had to hold the phone away from my ear,” “her laugh is a horse’s bray.”

No one knew the secret debt my mother had paid to me that made her loud,
No one knew she was destined for a deaf kid, her laugh calling to me in the crowd.

It seemed the little bit of favor that was the volume at which my mother spoke
was, to the rest of the universe, an insult to prod her with, a cosmic joke.

I still listen to the insults quietly aimed toward her, now thinking it’s tragic
that no one understands that a loud mother with a deaf daughter: it’s actually magic.

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Lost and Found, 2017

I used to dress up in mud
caked onto my hands,
misted onto my face.
I felt beautiful, invincible,
strong.

I would walk down the sloping dunes
toward the lake,
bucket and brother in tow.
Eagerness pounding through my veins,
invigorating.

Now I dress up in makeup
concealing my face,
carefully painted.
I feel beautiful, invincible,
still strong.

I walk down city streets
toward nothing at all,
camera and sketchbook stowed.
Eagerness still pounding,
still invigorating.

There are things I lost as a child,
and things I gained as an adult,
but the things that are constant
are the ones I bathe in,
keeping myself alive.

From Therapy, 2017

I am a sunken ship,
resting among the water that pulled me down.
I rest buried in the sandy graveyard leagues below.

The waves down here are so calm,
I often forget the strength of the ones that capsized me.
I forget how I used to fight to right myself.

Once you’ve swallowed enough force
you can convince yourself its better this way.
You can rest with what you vowed to battle.

But when sunlight fights through the depths to find me,
I remember I used to bail out even small volumes of water from my hull.
I remember I used to bask in the splendor of the sun.

There’s no road map to talking about trauma in casual conversations

“He’s not a very nice guy”
(He abused me when I was too young to know it)

“Montana is beautiful but it wasn’t for me”
(I spent most of my time in isolation, drunk and hiding)

“I didn’t want to be a doctor”
(I knew if I went to medical school I’d eventually kill myself)

Lies that everybody tells, aren’t really lies.

River Rocks, August 2017

Like a rock made smooth by the river,
I have been made soft my my caregiver.

I longed for my original jagged edges,
longed to remove myself from the soothing dredges.

Now I break myself against everything I meet,
hoping to be reformed: battered and beat.

And now that I am broken once more,
I wonder what I did all of it for.

Perhaps there is strength in being polished,
for there’s certainly weakness in being self-demolished.

Death, and the Grand Canyon

It was light outside her dorm room but dark inside her soul. She always thought that way: poetic, if not a little bit melodramatic. She had been orbiting around this plan for weeks, but had never landed on it until today. She had taken the drugs from her parents’ house in Nebraska weeks earlier, a combination of her leftover painkillers from her wisdom teeth surgery, her mother’s muscle relaxers, and something her father had been given when he hurt his back. Even when she took them, discreetly, piling them into the bottle with her name on it, leaving enough in her mom’s bottle so that theft would not be suspected, she had not thought definitively that she would kill herself. She had convinced herself to take them, the idea ruminating in the back of her mind as she drove the pills, tucked in with her freshly cleaned laundry, across state lines and back to college.

She lived alone in her dorm room, though the bathroom she had was connected to the room next to hers. Two perfectly lovely girls lived there, girls that looked up to her as their RA, thinking she was a good student, a pretty girl, someone who had her head on straight. She thought about this, and about how they would likely be the ones to find her body after the deed was done. She didn’t like that idea, but, again, she forced the thought into the back of her mind like she had done with the notion of suicide so many times in the last months.

She was wondering if she should write a note, she even sat down at her desk and opened her journal to do so. But she couldn’t think of what to write. Everything that was bothering her seemed so trivial, so unimportant. She had the notion that suicide should be some sort of grand gesture, a finale in a play with decisively laid out acts. Brutus, Cleopatra, Romeo and Juliet, Ophelia; their deaths were the results of actions. Hers was a result of nothing in particular; she was just sad. Of course, she thought, it stemmed from the fact that her two best friends liked each other more than they liked her, that her job as an RA took her away from them and the rest of the group that they hung out with, that she hated everyone she worked with as an RA, that school was really hard, that they guy she had been making out with for over a year didn’t want to be her boyfriend, and that she had lied to him — and everyone else — when she told him she wasn’t a virgin, that her parents had moved out of state six months ago and this place no longer felt like home, that her dog’s health had taken a turn for the worse when they had moved him to Nebraska, that she had been accused — rightfully, so — of cheating on a take-home test (though she believed that “take home” warranted cheating), but above all, she was just really fucking sad. Still, the acts in her play, she thought, did not warrant this finale, but perhaps the critics would declare it “modern,” “avant garde,” “pushing the boundaries of playwriting to its finest.” She laughed as these thoughts entered her head, and put down her journal, deciding against a note. She thought of her parents talking to her friends at her funerals and piecing together all the lies she had made up to construct her collegiate life, and putting together the fact that she wasn’t happy. That idea comforted her, somehow.

In lieu of a note, she took her cellphone and texted her best friend, part of the duo that she felt was pushing her away, and she finally felt free to let loose all the hurt that had been building up inside her over the last couple of months. She said she was sorry she didn’t grow up in the same place as them (a fact that had bonded them together more deeply than she could ever hope to match up to), she was sorry she had to live on campus and that she had less money than them, she was sorry that nothing she ever did was good enough for her to be anything but a third wheel to them. She looked at her phone, rereading her masterpiece of emotional expression and pressed send. She left her phone on the radiator of her dorm room, looked out the window onto the parking lot. It was getting dark, and she felt prepared now.

She sat on the vanity and put her feet into the sink, pulling the stopper and letting the basin fill up with warm water, something she often did before going to bed as her feet were always cold and often kept her from falling asleep. She took a handful of pills — maybe five or six — and with a glance at the mirror, she put them in her mouth and guzzled down a large portion of her water bottle. She did that twice, three times, and she finished her water bottle. She had to pee, so she took her feet out of the sink and went into the shared bathroom to do her business. It was while she was on the toilet that she thought to herself that she hadn’t taken her birth control yet today, and if she was taking so many pills, she might as well go take her birth control.

It was this thought that saved her life. She walked back into her dorm room, found the pack of birth control, squeezed out the tiny pink pill from its packaging and pushed it into her mouth. She was beginning to feel dizzy, but the thought rang clear into her head: you take birth control because you intend to live long enough to not want to get pregnant. So she stumbled into the bathroom, and threw up the contents of her stomach. She threw up three times, flushed the toilet, checked her hair in the mirror, and knocked on the bathroom door that connected to the adjoining room, housing the two lovely girls she had supposed might find her dead body. She told them she felt very sick and asked if they might drop her off at the ER. They were happy to. She told the doctors at the ER the truth. She told the friend she had texted minutes before she’d done it the truth. She told no one else.

Now, three years later, she is sitting on a boulder on the side of a downward sloping path in the Grand Canyon. Her hair is matted with sweat under her baseball cap and her two big toes are throbbing in her shoes with unimaginable pain, constricted by boots that had seemed perfectly sized (and on sale!) at the sporting goods store but had since either shrunken or decided they loved her feet so much they wanted a boa constrictor-like grip on them at all times. This is the first time since that day in her dorm room that she has considered her own death, but it seems different now.

There is nothing connecting that day to this one. It was spring then, it is October now; she was in Colorado then, Arizona now; she was utterly alone then, and surrounded by three good friends now; it was dark then, and now the sun in so bright it seems closer to the earth somehow. And yet, under the surface, she knows something is similar. Most days, people do not think about death. But on these days — years and miles and mountains of anti-depressants and therapy apart — for some reason, death feels close, a possibility.

She looked around. Everything here was beautiful. The way the red rocks jutted downward and contrasted against the bright blue sky. The way plants had found a way to grow in this deprived soil under this blistering sun, the way it feels so vastly far away from anything humans have built. And yet it was frightening. This was the first time since that day that she felt like she might die. She was hyper-aware that she could snap her ankle and be unable to walk out, she could fall off the next jutting look-out, she could be swept away in the fast-moving waters of the river and her body would never be found. She could get heat-stroke, wander away from her group and die of starvation and thirst. She even felt as if she could die of toenail pain at the current moment, though, logically, she knew that wasn’t a valid possibility.

She is thinking about that day on this day, the first of four to be spent in the Grand Canyon, and thinking about how similar they feel, and yet the difference screams through her thoughts. On that day, she had wanted to die. She had thought that being dead might be serene, peaceful, without problems or even emotions. She had wanted that. On this day, her mind gets stuck on the physicality of death, how, here, her body would most certainly be picked apart by scavengers, her eyes eaten out of their sockets, her abdomen ripped open and hosted by hundreds of maggots. There are no two sweet girls to happen upon her corpse here, only nature withering away her form into bones and dust. She cannot imagine her afterlife being peaceful when that is happening to her dead body.

She is thinking about how those two deaths would be so different, and yet, inside her, she knows that all deaths are the same. The next day, when she and her friends reach the bottom of the canyon and swim in the muddy brown waters of the Colorado river and wash two days worth of sweat off of their bodies, surrounded not by paths winding downward but by skyscraper-high cliffs on all sides of them, basking in shade and good company and cheese sticks wrapped up in tortillas, she will feel a joy exceeding any other moment in her life, the pure simple act of being alive.

Two days later, safely out of the canyon, her muscles tired and sore, her body scrubbed clean and the dirt washed out of her hair, while inspecting her damaged feet, her toenails, blackened by blood, will come off into her fingers and she will cry — from pain, from release, and, above all, from a sort of unspoken thankfulness she has for being able to feel these things. Her toenails grow back in the years to come, and though they never return to their former glory, every night, when she soaks her feet in the sink to warm them up before going to bed, she looks at her mangled toenails and smiles, happy to be alive.

Poems about Noah, 2014

I used to think love meant making room
Meant being consumed
I used to want passion, fire and lust
A love that burned hot and turned doubt into dust

I used to see him and I in terms of what I had won
Our futures, our presents, all that we’ve done
I now know that winning is just consolation
The true prize is knowing—just knowing—elation

The first time I saw you wasn’t exciting or new
It was old and comfortable like I’ve known in few
We came together, inspired and awed
I wrote on your arm, “the world is full of gods”

I used to think love meant being consumed
Invaded, made new, allowed to bloom
I now know that love is being explored, to roam
I now know that loving you was like coming home

//

a boy touched me once, and it resounded forever

waves of something — emotion or whatever

 

he was number three of a list that grew after

to great lengths, i can’t lie

not like him (he was an actor)

 

I saw him read poetry and words beat out his chest

daring to be heard like i never could, like he was best

 

he was something, something real and without fear

if not a little egotistical

much like me (i’m an engineer)

 

maybe it was fate that our love grew damp

or — likely — that he left for jewish summer camp

//

My last summer here, I drink wine on an illuminated porch, twinkle lights all around me. A boy is sitting next to me, showing me his tattoos. I wonder if this is what falling in love feels like. It will take us hours to kiss, to get to the actual raw skin and bones of the act.

Until then, we satisfy ourselves with gentle grazes of the fingers as I draw fake tattoos on his arms of my favorite quotes, the things I like to doodle in class when I’m not paying attention. We retreat to his bedroom, a simple room occupied only by a bed and dirty clothes, to watch a movie.

When the movie is over, he starts to take off my clothes. I am frenzied; he is calm. He turns on the lights, and looks at me. I feel like I’m burning. I’ve never been looked at like this. Whether or not I am falling in love with him is no longer a question; it’s a certainty screaming inside my head as my lungs struggle to take the next breath and my hands struggle at his zipper.

Three weeks later, he has already moved away, but I replay the night over and over as I fuck his next-door neighbor.

Poems about Parents, pre-antidepressants.

(mom)

its her, with the walls around me

the taste and all i can’t see

shredding circles like the thing i cant think of

the woman who pushes and who shoves

 

memories fade like they’re wont to do

an aging smile and a morality true

what light, what dark,

what wanders and sparks

 

stories about potential choke in my mouth

tongue in cheek, birds headed south

like flying away would solve all

but I’m meant to stay past the fall

 

“stay, stay, stay,” she shouts

but the truth and my words have since come out

i’m not her, not the one she wants me to be

is this —poison— how i’m meant to be free?

 

not a doctor, not a lawyer, not close to success

would i trade it all for a “you love me?” / “yes”

mother, mom, sweetness above

and i thought i was done writing poems about love

 

//

(dad)

i am covered in sugar

made to taste sweet

i am bathed and borne

to be palatable

i can hurt, maim. i can break

as long as i only do it to myself

 

my father doesn’t love me —

“can’t you find some sort of coping mechanism”

“can’t you control your emotions just a little”

i am fire and ash, destroying myself from within

but far be it from me not to bury in myself in sugar