On Hallowed Ground at Night (WINTER)

The ground is cold, so hard, beneath snow and ice. Fog swirls around the headstones, the few bare trees lingering like sentinels along the grounds of the ever sleeping. It may be hallowed ground, but it is haunted by the memories of lives from over a century of those buried under the cold-packed earth. Sounds linger through the fog and over the snow - the hoot of an owl, tree branches snapping in the wind, a hushed and muffled whisper of movement from somewhere. The ghosts mourn here for eternity, huddled in the shifting shadows, seeking warmth from the memories of their previous lives. 

They used to burn witches, you know

Women who weren’t married. Who knew herbal remedies and minor medical knowledge. Who were outspoken and had opinions and stood their ground. Who may have been a bit different. Who chose to instead do something more than tend home and hearth. Who could read and write. 

They don’t do that now; it’s more insidious than that. It’s slowly taking away rights to reproductive health. It’s manipulation and gaslighting. It’s stalking, catcalling, getting aggressive when told, “No.” It’s getting assaulted, then not being believed, being blamed (what were YOU wearing? Why were YOU alone?), the assaulter getting a slap on the wrist. It’s the pay inequality. It’s being defined by getting married and having children, instead of being defined by your successes and who you are. It’s having to fight for rights that should be unalienable, the ones white men take for granted. It’s being questioned, having to prove yourself in the workplace. It’s being told it’s your weight, it's anxiety, it’s stress when you try to get a diagnosis, when you’re asking for the same care that men get without question.

It’s being a woman. Still being burned, but metaphorically.

I don't trust you

To understand how removing access to reproductive healthcare affects me. To make decisions about my reproductive health. With my nieces and their future. With my nephew and his immigrant parents. To know what is actually right. To listen to anyone - especially marginalized populations - about anything, unless it’s something you want to hear. Within 20 feet of any woman. To defuse any situation, especially with this potential World War III. To think logically - like, at all. When you say you want to protect women. When you say you’ll improve the economy. When you say that everything will “be peaceful.” Any further than I can throw you. With your “Make America Great Again” rhetoric, or any of your rhetoric at all - it all seems exactly like the rhetoric that got Hitler into power (and look at what happened then). 

I don’t trust you. Don’t be surprised if you find yourself the “leader” of a country with a microscopic population. 

Your Body, My Choice: A Benediction

No. We’ve served long enough. Enough in free labor, in the form of maid, laundry service, cook, caretaker. Broken down and beaten, ignored, suffered. No. The fire of rage has become wild, instead of contained. Silence no longer suits. Kneeling until our knees shattered and bled. Continuing to bleed and rage and scream, because we are still alive to fight. For a choice. For a life we won’t be forced to throw away. For safety and freedom and breaking the shackles forced upon us by the sick in the guise of the caring patriarchy. We aren’t property to be bought and sold at market. The cacophony of our voices won’t be silenced. Our sacrifice will one day save our daughters, sisters, wives. Our descendants will hear our rage and know the injustices we fought. 

After all, the memories are bone deep, caught in the collective of our souls, remembered and stoking the rage we fight with. We are too far to turn back.

Aulasy

From the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows:

Aulasy: n. The sadness that there’s no way to convey a powerful memory to people who weren’t there at the time - driving past your childhood home to show it to a friend, or pointing at a picture of a loved one you lost, only to realize that to them it’s just another house, just another face. 

There was an era of fenced-in yards and sandboxes and carefree summer days beneath the lemon drop sun. Of Halloween costumes lovingly made by my grandma - I remember a spider and a vampire. Of always being in the neighbor’s yard, yelling and playing make believe.

Another era of summers spent at the swim club, swim meets every week in June and July, skipping practice, sunbathing. Spending the month of August in the south of France, on the Mediterranean. Days with feet in the sand and swimming in the sea and evenings eating at that awesome restaurant, then ice cream at the shop next door. Mornings at the open air market. 

An era of meeting people who become friends who end up family. Spending time with them, having dinner, laughing over drinks or coffee. The chosen family, bound by trials or paved with shared experiences. 

The (few) eras of losing people you love, family bound by blood or otherwise. Having to say your final goodbye to someone who’s meant the world to you, and all you’re saying goodbye to is an empty vessel. The wounds left behind deep and may never heal, the pain only getting easier to bear, though never fading. 

The same era of saying goodbye to my older brother after losing a battle with his own mind. To my maternal grandparents (six years apart) who were like a second pair of parents. To my paternal grandfather, who had gone through a battle (or several) of the physical kind. To my cousin, not three years older than me, another lost too young. 

An era of before and after. A moment when everything changed, when I went from the person I was to the one I am. Reality shifted and everything is different. I’m slightly darker, emotionally and mentally, swimming in a haze, but different. And branded by death. 

The era of nights that seem to be endless until the sun rises in the morning. Sleepless darkness as I watch the minutes tick by, fading into the eternal void. Relentless exhaustion, and yet sleep still eludes me. Sometimes more fickle than a summer day in April. Restlessness is my bedfollow on nights such as this, and I’m loath to tell it to leave. Otherwise, restlessness becomes agitation. 

An era seemingly out of joint. Faded memories and half-forgotten stories fill the spaces, a memoir of moments, chaotic and wild and warm. Relying on the vague retellings to fill the gaps; the quiet whispers of an unreliable narrator sometimes filling the silence. 

The era with the sweetest pup, taking long walks on trails. Cuddling on the couch. Ear scratches and belly rubs as we watched TV. The pup who was always at the front door to welcome us home and greeted us with kisses and tip-tapping toes of joy. 

The lost eras. The ones when I’d forgotten who I was or didn’t recognize myself. The ones I don’t remember. Lost to the void, empty and black. Shadowed or broken, missing pieces, torn to shreds. The ones my brain buried, locked in a box, to protect itself, never to release them. 

The (almost) lifelong era of reading, devouring each book almost as soon as they’re in my hands. I’ve lived a thousand different lives in a thousand different places. Lost myself in the words and experienced different things, just by reading. 

The era of the poet, using my own written words to express what’s hard for me to say, or tell a story, or spell out my dreams, yearnings, memories, desires. A different way to feel or live a life I otherwise wouldn’t. A way I won’t ever lose myself or disappear. 

Chase McDaniel said "It's good to feel like I'm still alive"

My heart still beats, and there’s still air in my lungs. So I can feel the breeze on my skin. Taste the brine coming off the ocean. Swim in Lake Superior and bury my feet in the sand. So I can count the scars stitching my skin together, each one with a story. Collect rocks to line my windows. Find places to fall in love with. So I can dance in the rain and walk barefoot in the forest. Write poetry, filling notebooks of hopes and dreams and memories behind the words I write. So I can count the stars and learn the stories of all the constellations. Chase passion and happiness as far as I can. Wander until I am exhausted, following the wanderlust without end. Find myself in the foothills of either the Rockies or the Pyrenees. Get lost in new places and become someone new. So I can collect stories - my own and those of others. Live a life that makes me happy. FInd the small things that bring me joy. 

It’s good to feel like I’m still alive. With air in my lungs and a heart that still beats strong. 

But you’re just a line in a poem I wrote

I don't think about how you hurt me, or how you left. The way you made me feel has been washed away by the smoldering anger that keeps me warm at night. You're referred to as "that ass" when I'm talking to friends or my therapist. I've let go of the love and hurt I'd associated with you because remembering you isn't worth it. I am always happier on my own, in the company of my ghosts. You aren't one of them. I may be reckless, but never enough to allow myself to have an intuitive link to you, or anyone like you. Not anymore. I fall asleep happy. I feel lighter. I don't have someone to mess with my emotions or my heart. You let me in and I ripped your heart out with a smile on my face. My fingers are still tinged with your blood, and I laugh. Because I may have left behind destruction, but you're just a line in this poem. 

You are just a line in a poem I wrote about the destruction I leave in my trail of broken hearts.