I’m twenty-seven, have a six year old and I am married to a math genius. I’m a dumb hyper kid. I write poetry. Lately about war. Right now I am watching c-span 2. I don’t know if I can trust the General speaking. He looks honest. My brother is a soldier. He’s going back to war.I just graduated from college with a writing degree. It helped. I have realized that punctuation will not kill me.My husband is interviewing for jobs, and soon he will get one, and we will move away from Lake Superior.We have made many friends that we don’t want to leave but jobs are scarce in the north, and so we plan our departure. I leave a part of myself and take a part of this town, this land, these friends with me. There is still sand in my blue jean pockets.I don’t want to leave. Marquette is my writing home. My place to stretch and run and play. Is the peace I feel inside from maturity or is a product of my location? The slow mornings of writing, the looking out to the blue, the song singing, the thimbleberry eating and bunny, bird, squirrel, watching. The silent steps into the night sky and brilliance of the stars. The twitching northern lights. The brisk nights standing by a fire with a hot tea with honey. How far away will I wonder from my lady, the great lake before I won’t be able to shut my eyes and visualize her? I may never return. It maybe to painful, to innocent to return. I may have to stand off, far and attempt to forget the life I had. I will surely make a new one. I will not find better views or friends. I will not hear better poetry or drink better coffee. But maybe I’ll find a substitute. Madison, look for me. I’ll be the chubby kid with the fistful of poems and the coffee stained frown.
I’m working on being a better woman.
So I won’t try to prove it
by giving into your demands.
I recently made peace with my womanhood.
I finally realized what those crazed bitches
who have ten kids knew all along.
Such a bad day to find a rope and friend,
such a bad day to hide the sour touch of hunger, of watchful sin.
My faith is not strong enough to be answered. My faith is
broken. And yet I hold on to a bible and a photo.
Outside, I hear a child call, in long and extended
soft yells, of ‘I am lost, where’s home’
This little voice sounds like my daughters voice,
and I almost cry out ‘yes, dear I am here’
but my daughter is state side, at school,
limping her way in a classroom.
my half heart says run to the lost child,
hold her, and help her find a mother.
This voice, so patient and enduring, calling out,
is in the way of war time orders.
The child walks in front of the truck.
My buddy speeds up to run her over.
As he sings the songs of boot camp training
‘Kill them on a Sunday morning,
Bomb them on their way to prayer’
Like usual I join in and don’t care.
do not eat in front of me. it hurts my feelings