wyrdwind

Get Real

I’m no

manic pixie dream girl

but I’ll slam shot after shot

of whatever the fuck

I’ve got going on, raw dog,

before I accept the mass delusion

that money is real.

I said all gold is fool’s gold,

normalcy bias a fatal flaw,

absolutely nothing about motherhood

is clean or subtle, cradle to grave,

farm to table, mound and maypole,

gash and guttural, bone and blood.

Oh I’m whimsical, cocktail molotov,

can drown those sorrows pretty papa,

or you can get in the car

’cause mama wants a concubine.

A companion,

I’m several hands full, keep that mouth

open. Eyes

on me. I’ll learn you a thing.

How to handle, I’ve got keys

to the kingdom, the language of dreams,

men cling to words

but I know what they mean.

The Diagnosis, bitch please,

I have this, I have this, I have this,

miss me with that navel gaze,

you can be any way

and let ’em choke on it, your purpose

is not fit for consumption, to digest

yourself in their service. For profit. Listen,

the world is just

really big.

I’m not sayin’ it ain’t tough,

but if you’re finished hog rollin’ in the dump,

I’ve got strong arms and a warm heart,

ingredients and a wood fire oven

shaped like a fat blue fish

and that’s a pretty good start.

Making Biscuits

I like a bit o’ chatterbox,

come here turn those pockets out,

rocks, leaves, feathers, worms,

I’ll help you find a place

for all your little treasures,

they make sense to me.

Dove I don’t condescend, joy

is a lifelong domain. Flowers

in a mother’s garden. Her worst fear

for a child to fall silent

at any age. If it’s got a pulse

I’ve got the skill to cultivate.

Hell, even if it doesn’t.

I’ve said,

this world wasn’t made for us,

love we’re at disadvantage,

I know, I know it’s a lot,

some better girl or boy locked

behind a paywall, could have been

withdrawal, you from before.

Before. Before. You could just

jump. Fall. Take too much. Go. I know.

I know.

There comes a time

you evaluate

the standard of life

you’re willing to accept.

Imagine then, however bad it gets,

that, but my hands in your hair,

a thick blanket,

my fingers lightly tracing your veins

on the porch in the rain,

I’ve lit candles, can murmur or sing

or observe the quiet, read

a silly story. Hold

you all night. Every night.

Make a meal

from next to nothing.

Whatever’s left to give,

I’ll take, it’s not my way

to stipulate uniform shape,

to morosely commiserate.

I am here

whatever you decide, please

don’t take offense

at my sunshine.

I’ll make a place

for you to thrive or die.

As an arborist might say,

the best time to plant

a tree

was thirty years ago.

The next best time

is today.

From Beneath You I Devour

So you weren’t born

to a good example. Ass end

of nowhere trailer, barely there

parents or straight toxic,

the addict early onset arthritis back bent

of workin’ class.

Callings and careers are what happen

to other people. Art is wonderful

but it won’t pay rent. College

equals ruinous debt.

Should you attend,

you’re surrounded by kids

with a trust fund, a cushion, a place to land,

they may have problems

but money ain’t one. Schools are funded

accordin’ to median income, there’s a chasm

miles wide and you’re alone

playin’ catch up.

Every fuckin’ day,

am I good enough?

Is this just what I deserve?

They don’t even look

at how much groceries cost, just fill their carts,

and you ate the last bag, a well meanin’ gift,

in the pantry knowin’ you’re allergic,

ate until your mouth bled

and your throat a closed fist o’ needles.

Knew just when to stop

because you couldn’t afford a doctor.

You feel more kinship

with that homeless woman off her meds,

who tags along whenever you’re downtown,

and shit, why take ’em?

So she can fully perceive

the abject despair of her situation?

Relive the rapes?

Front row seat

to humanity’s degradation.

Getting Help is a long wait

for a train don’t come.

There is no help without support.

This is what I’m talkin’ about,

sit the fuck down, look at me,

poverty is violence,

a deliberate choice of the upper class.

If they’re so great,

where are all the trees? Animals.

Clean air. Fresh water. Stars visible

to the naked eye. Food. Shelter.

They’ve built pedophile island instead.

There comes a time

you evaluate

the standard of life

you’re willin’ to accept.

Empty Chair

I’m always holding two hands

when I enter the room. The child

who just got here and the child

who became a mother too soon.

Neither understands

the needs of the other,

has the patience, the bandwidth.

A woman’s hips

aren’t fully developed

until she is twenty-five years old.

How old was yours?

With few exceptions,

the presence of a man

almost always

makes it worse.

He’ll see his wife,

mother of two, drink every day,

smoke blunts as soon as she wakes,

and as long as she’s caked and he gets laid,

makes it fun, he don’t care.

Her Catholic parents frown.

We’ll be camping

and I’ll stumble across her

hiding behind a tree

from her kids,

getting high. She’ll be like,

shhh I’m not here,

I know I should stop

but I get so tired.

I can’t hear myself.

They’re so loud.

And smile and say

I’m not a natural at being a mother

like you.

You’re so good with them.

They don’t bother you at all.

You know so much

like my grandma.

And as always

I’ll respond

that I’m not a natural, I just had time

to grow up. Just because

a sapling blooms doesn’t mean

it’s ready to bear fruit.

Forcing harvest

forever stunts its growth,

overburdens its roots and limbs.

There’s a reason

human women evolved

to live on long past

menopause.

You’re not meant

to do this alone.

Hard Questions

Approximately 30%

of US households make 50k or less.

In this economy, that’s poor.

One hand out the grave dug every day at work.

One medical emergency away

from homeless or bankrupt.

Two full-time minimum wage jobs (rare)

unless you’re a teacher, nurse, fireman or cop.

You might rise above

if your family has money, connections,

or love.

People ask

why don’t we just stop

breeding.

Catholic.

Religion in general.

The pill fucks with your health.

Abortion costs one month’s rent

and the penis involved won’t drop a cent

wash his junk or wash his hands,

so that’s a UTI. At best.

That’s right class,

being a ho is either suicide, slavery, or privilege,

take a guess

which one most media depicts.

The most successful women among them

still got flesh on full display. Meat market.

Yeah, women could ignore men, forego sex,

one of the few…”pleasures” afforded to us

regardless of class and work together instead.

We’d be better off.

Kids won’t get shot to death

in school, have to cover

their tiny bodies

with their best friend’s blood

to survive

the tantrum of a boy girls didn’t like,

if they’re not there to begin with.

Holistic

People suck

at identifying specific stressors,

accurately calculating impact

of significant life events.

Me, I’ll clock your exact tone of voice,

how you carry yourself, twitch, agitate

at slammed doors or certain words,

how, if, when you cry during a movie

and be like

ah,

your father was abusive.

Understood.

Developmentally you are…here.

Plants can’t tell you what’s wrong.

You gotta pay attention,

assess a person’s quiet—

not to be confused with silence—

a body isn’t separate nations,

it’s interconnected regions,

a web of climates

and growth habits.

I sense a storm brewing

leagues off

like some kinda

vest-on dog like

slow your roll ho you’re gonna

have a seizure, you’d think

I could smell brain chemistry.

Got them animal instincts.

An old schoolmate

who grew up nearby

might appear suddenly

in a panic, suspect

an overdose but can’t

afford the hospital,

where he could be deported,

but remembers

my house, my garden

like his abuelita. Hushes

his voice like its church.

Won’t go to his mama

because she’s Catholic.

Or I’ll receive messages

from friends hours away

after a 72 hour psych hold

saying that if I didn’t know

no one did. Balk a bit

when I suggest

their husband and kids

are the source of duress.

They’re women,

how could that be?

Catholic.

Gets those hooks in.

The mind

hot wires key associations,

that’s the control panel

for endorphins.

The reason

people reach out

take shelter, cry, hunker, expose,

is because the forgotten space

I occupy

is Tree. Forest. Queen on the chessboard.

Old lady in the cottage.

And the number one thing

a forest does

is slow

the sympathetic nervous system,

turn fight or flight

to rest and digest.

Regulars

A retired man, always Clown On,

so you know there’s somethin’,

I don’t prod.

I play along as he dissembles

at length. Some people just wanna

talk.

Suddenly he looks over

and notes…somethin’ in my face.

Hands on my hips, starin’ a distance.

He cracks a joke and I just say

I’m always thinkin’. Busy inside.

Then, sheepish, asks if I’m annoyed,

that it’s been brought to his attention

he wears on some folk.

I don’t mind at all, not a bit,

and that’s the truth

not customer service.

My boss comes out for a chat

and he segues to the topic

of his wife.

How the stress

of helpin’ him overcome alcoholism

turned her to drink herself

after lifelong abstinence.

The whole time endometriosis

ravaged everythin’ within reach, returned

even after hysterectomy.

After eight years of drink,

he came home and she was gone.

They found her body

in a motel outside Barstow.

He didn’t know

how extensive the scars

until they cut her open.

So he comes to the health food store.

Looks me in the eye then,

with a fragile smile,

and says you women, pause,

endure so much. Your pain

falls on deaf ears. You all

should be allowed to carry a gun

and shoot a man

whenever it hurts.

My boss is shocked.

I belly laugh

and that’s all he wants.

After he goes, she says his wits

are addled because of pills.

Opioid addict.

Or as I call it, Lovelost.

Demeter gives us a hint.

It’s a yellow rope

frayed at both ends

like the one Wagon Girl used

to tie her best shoppin’ cart

to our utility gate on Samhain.

Didn’t write her given name, just Wagon Girl

in crayon.

A partin’ gift.

We won’t be seein’ her again.

I wouldn’t use the word addled,

I won’t even call it sad,

and I understand well enough

the mash-up, the remix, listen,

I’ll make you a promise.

You can be a jokester

with a lame hind

in my garden so long as

you keep showin’ up,

as long as you can bear it,

keep puttin’ that grubby rope in my hand

and I’ll see about those edges.

Right now, extra cases of pickle juice.

Rosary

I list facts

like pits on a string.

Contemplation beads, I wake up,

let’s see, let’s see

what can be done, there’s maybe

fifteen years—yes fifteen, scientists

from their place of privilege

and proper speak

underestimate—

until 2C.

The most deadly natural disasters

are heatwaves.

They’ve not been looking right,

crops are already failing

as laborers drop dead

from renal failure, stroke, salt deficiency,

and heart disease

in Other Countries.

2/3 of Arizona’s farmland run dry.

If your food comes packaged

from a grocery store

you’re on borrowed time.

Women, land, water.

Everything else is noise.

A castle in the sky.

Governments whine, ladies,

we need more bodies for the pile, placin’ bets,

any day now we’re gonna win,

we’re a team! The GDP! Please, just hear us out,

spread your legs, this time it’ll be different.

Just one more game. One more election. Another war.

A mere skirmish. We’ll just use drones.

Don’t you know I’m a hero,

let’s play house, I’ll even clean it, “help”

once in a blue moon. Come back to bed.

This time

it’ll be different.

Serving Suggestion

Now some of you ladies

know all about this shit.

Anorexia nervosa

is the most lethal mental illness,

cases upwards 90% female—

which is fuckin’ crazy

’cause we’re the sex put max points

into famine resistance.

Persistence predator endurance.

We store fat subcutaneous

and dimple grip that shit at no danger

to our hearts. Estrogen protects,

hydrates, insulates, balances,

mineralizes bone, repairs neurons.

The fat on our hips and thighs

is rich in omega-3s, crucial

for brain development, plasticity,

and easing the symptoms

of menopause.

At my thinnest (against my will)

I could not even fit one leg

through the waist

of my mother’s wedding dress.

She stopped touching me

at two weeks old

and found a way

to fit back into her pants.

Take a shot any of it sounds familiar.

Every comment is a veiled insult,

ignores you if you need help,

saw your first period and left you

cryin’ on the floor with no explanation

whatsoever,

imagines shared faults if she wants to bond,

only your belongings are Mess,

doesn’t understand why you’d want

more than like five clothes,

that’s definitely enough

for groceries,

what do you mean

you’re hungry?

Ladies, how we doin’? Try not

to black out or piss your pants.

Someone’s kind to you

and she makes sure you know

she knows better, finds

their affection bizarre.

Says she’s ashamed

to have made such an evil

daughter,

because when a boy

kept touchin’ you

after you said stop

you put a pencil

through his fuckin’ hand

calmly and without remorse.

You’re right that’s specific.

If you use big words

or subtly correct logical fallacy

it’s a personal affront.

Tapes vicious diatribes

to your bathroom mirror

and bedroom door and bemoans

your attitude to everyone afterwards,

if you confront her about that she screams,

stomps, slaps your face, slams cupboards,

takes off

for six hours.

When she returns

pretends everything is fine.

Hell, she might even do somethin’ nice.

Of course, if questioned much later,

doesn’t remember.

All the while,

she asks you to try on that dress.

You get a boyfriend

and bring him by

’cause it’s hard to date

and hide where you live.

She fawns all over him

like your brother and dad

and constantly insists

you serve him a plate.

Female Rage

I never yell.

No matter how strong

my emotions, I scruff them

and hold them at arm’s length.

I will always, always communicate,

even if it’s just to say

I’ve got a situation, and we need

to revisit this subject at a later date.

I’m leaving now,

but I am not going away.

I am not angry, okay?

I just need to think.

Decompress. Percolate.

Though things are unlikely

to reach this point.

The one area

I managed to excel most in life,

is strong bonds. Any kind.

Gods stacked the fuckin’ deck

but I treat a person right.

Of your humanity

I never lose sight.

I always seek

to preserve dignity.

Yours and mine.

But when it comes to women

at large,

society does not feel the same.

Doctors in a blue state

point blank

ignored

my best friend’s obvious preeclampsia.

Said nothing was wrong. I warned

and warned and warned,

my Scottish foremother

delivered alone and went blind on the kitchen floor,

it’s the number one fatal complication, push,

and sure enough,

every single doctor blew her off.

Prescribed wildly inappropriate meds

for her worsening condition after birth.

Finally her husband

drove her to an emergency room

somewhere else

and made a huge fuss—

the man is not a natural at confrontation—

those doctors’ incompetence

risked multiple organ collapse,

called her husband and newborn back

to say goodbye, the priest

to read her rites.

She nearly died

because those blue state doctors

were too scared

to discuss potential termination.

She wouldn’t have. Catholic.

But my best friend

matters. Herself. A whole person.

She deserved

to hold her daughter

instead of be traumatized.

To be handled warmly

and given every option beforehand.

Pregnancy

is the most dangerous thing

a human body does.

Withholding information,

restricting choice, applying leverage

or perverse incentive

is attempted murder.

There was a panel on women’s health

and not a single woman present.

When the population dropped

after the invention of The Pill,

it wasn’t because men suddenly cared,

our defenses just improved, plus

they thought it would get them laid.

Found other ways to guarantee

workers and soldiers.

Gamble futures like it’s cards.

It’s enough to flip furniture and braid a lash,

I’ll show you Atlas Shrugged, fuck ass

turned God’s house into a marketplace.

They nailed Him up so She would starve,

a cruel mockery of the Sacred Heart.

To be clear,

you do not sit at this table

with an opinion

when you’ve put forth

less real world effort,

incurred fewer lifelong consequences,

than it takes to give birth.

Paid the price off your own back

to carry every single one.