Marriage

I dreamt my husband left me and didn’t say why, like when we fight because I fail to read his mind.

I felt unlovable, alone, afraid, sad, and defeated.

I told him that when he drilled the ceiling above our heads it created so much dust, noise, and falling debris that I feared for our lives.

He implied that I should understand his master plan.

Though we may disagree, I woke up with the feeling that my marriage is worth more to me than I thought.

There’s the devil that you know versus the angel that you don’t…at least he keeps me out of the horrors of the dating pool, though gentlemanly bachelors seemed to abound after we got married.

I just need to keep the sky from falling, and the sky is my mind.

Meeting

If you look deeply enough into anything, you will see everything.

The motion in the stillness, the health within the illness.

The simplicity in complexity, the you within the me.

We are cut from the same cloth, woven by threads of love.

The same love that ushers us into and out of this world, and holds us tenderly in our moments of need.

Meeting this moment, I see the breath in all things, the potential of even seemingly inert objects to transform again and again.

The Spill

Torn between love and money, I watch as my hard won earnings bleed into the streets with each frivolous purchase made by my husband, who is indifferent to my suffering.

I panic and feel weak, disoriented and dizzy from shock and ongoing loss.

I fantasize about divorce, then gather myself and remind myself that I have survived worse, that I have more savings now than I’ve ever had before, as humble as my life is at present.

Ever industrious, I set to stitching my wounds.

I don’t want to be lonely and rich, but in my marriage I currently feel lonely and poor because my husband is not on my team and he embitters the fruits of my labor.

I’m not sure how I will ever clean up this spill.

Something like Love

My father gave me something like love except for the swearing and shaming. At least he always worked to support the family, though his money was perpetually scarce.

My mother gave me something like love except for the long stretches of neglect punctuated by outbursts of rage. At least she always cleaned the house, or taught me to do so.

My sisters gave me something like love until they felt insecure, which always happened sooner rather than later. I learned to hide myself in plain sight to let them take the limelight.

My partner gave me something like love except for how he acts with complete disregard for our family’s wellbeing, spending his time and money on whims to stroke his male ego instead of our necessities, but at least he doesn’t beat or cheat on me.

Perhaps the currency of love is like that: always a bit dirty, even if the faults are invisible to the eye.

Maybe I’m blind to the ways that my own love falls short, and those closest to me can hold up that sacred mirror if I am brave enough to look.

I’m sure I’d be horrified to see my own shortcomings magnified in front of me. But underneath my humanly errors, I’d also see the pure intentions of my soul, which probably look something like love.

The Missing Ingredient

I finally found the ingredient that was missing in all my previous relationships: forgiveness.

Besides the fact that I repeatedly dated needy, jealous, dramatic, alcoholic, narcissistic, energy vampire, borderline personality disorder types, my relationships failed because I failed to forgive.

My marriage is infinitely sweeter now that I am no longer clinging bitterly to expectations and resenting my partner when he falls short, no matter how reasonable my requests seem to me.

I give myself and my partner permission to mess up endlessly; to selfishly waste time and money and to be forgiven even for our own inability to forgive.

Newly armed with this panacea to soothe any interpersonal wound, my ex-boyfriends don’t seem sinister after all, but simply in need of forgiveness.

The floodgates of my heart swing wide open and I feel pure love wash our transgressions clean.

When I get lost in the humanness of my life, may I return home to a heart connected to the Divine.

May I be both forgiven and forgiver.

I finally hear you, sacred silence.

Marriage

Behind the curtain of marriage I treasure the single men I know, each one a potential gem who would surely treat me better than my husband does.

I imagine how they would listen to me as we engage in stimulating conversations over a meal they provided, how respectful and grateful they would act, how passionate as lovers, how giving and attentive.

I fantasize about men who balance their check books and clean up after themselves, men who are calm and communicate maturely, who do the damn dishes, who save money or at least spend it on their family, who let go of past hurts, evolve and hold space for me to do the same.

I try to make myself at home within the sound-proof confines of my marriage, though the walls threaten to close in and crush me; both execution device and tomb.

Within the secret tortures of my marriage, my husband and I fight fervently leading up to the moment that we arrive out our friends’ houses, quickly plastering smiles on our faces as we ring the doorbell.

My veins are scalded by resentment for all the ways my husband takes miles without giving an inch.

I scan the horizon for a silver lining, a way to improve my situation: so far marriage counseling, life coaching and me doing the work on myself have all fallen short.

Yet deep below the cracks in our relationship, I sense a fertile humus.

We share more than our sordid history together; we make a home and a family.

We are united in our love for our baby, though we often disagree bitterly on how to raise her.

We share a commitment to our life together and a vision of our future, though we put different amounts of effort and resources towards both: in our relationship, I do all the earning and handle all the responsibilities for our household.

He drags down my energy and my finances, invoking a slow and destitute death.

Perhaps I’m not in a position to judge him: maybe he is the better one and I am the bitter one.

For now, I remain hidden behind the curtain of marriage, bound to my husband and yet alone.

Field

In the field beyond words

Our spirits meet

I’m not too blinded by the light to see your energy and delight in the way the wildflowers sway with us

Physically, I am bound in this life

In spirit, I am boundless

That field beyond words is our playground, filled with passion and joy, gratitude and care

It is easy for relationships to seem perfect when they aren’t actually happening

I wonder if you have a sense of my spirit’s desire to bond with yours

I used to think all beings were one spirit, but it is more fun to flirt with another than with self

I used to take for granted that a spirit bond was enough, then I lost the one I loved

His absence taught me the importance of being there, of showing up

I stand here in the field with so much love to share

Super Moon

I ran outside to see the super moon

My eyes caught only fire flies, and that’s when I realized

Like the moon, we are all mirrors for the sun, specks of stardust

I ran outside holding withered roses, cursing the thorns in my haste

That is when I tasted the truth that my lips don’t only produce diamonds and flowers, but toads and vipers too

I was only kidding myself that just because I act selfless, doesn’t mean I don’t have selfish desires

Narcissism is the sharpest edge of the empathic knife with which I forge through life

If I didn’t possess any of those qualities, how could I have attracted those types to me?

With renewed gratitude, I love my humble husband

The only thing he fills my hands with are his own, and that is enough

After the last dish was washed I ran outside, overwhelmed with anger and grief for what I cannot undo

I struck a chair pose, sitting into my discomfort until my thighs burned and my mind emptied and my excess energy evaporated upward, toward the super moon

A Tale of Two Titties

My tits used to be ornamental, fruit of my tree

Now they serve a purpose greater than me

I breastfeed my baby night and day

Engorged and heavy, my tits now sway

Leaky Lefty has an easy flow

Old Faithful, the right breast, is steady and slow

Faithful humbly carried the load when Lefty was out of commission due to a painful combination of mastitis and a blocked milk duct

My breasts lost their perkiness and youthful appeal long ago

Before the rise of services such as Only Fans, for which they could have raked in riches, I’m told

I’ve worked a lot harder for a lot lower wages

Putting aside all rampages, I bow my head in gratitude for my body, my baby, and my reproductive freedom

High Wire

Every time I write, I play with fire

I know it is just a matter of time before my luck expires

When you find these words there will be hell to pay for what I didn’t say to your face

The dicks I didn’t count, the stories I didn’t recount to you.

After all I have given, how can you think I owe you anything but grace?

Yet I step out again on this high wire, reeling over the mire

You are all up in my business, yet have no business of your own

I warn you: if you mess with me enough, you will be the one without a home

Stop trying to squeeze me dry

With love and patience, it’ll all be yours in time