Wild Animal (a poem)

I’ve tried out the gesture of tsk-tsking a few times,

When it seems it may have been appropriate.

I’ve tried,

Not for months now, but once upon a time,

To do the type of things that level-headed people do,

Like sighing at others’ reckless denial of the

Shit that passes for first-world amenities –

Not to humble-brag, but yesterday I spoke at length with

A homeless woman whose mouth was all covered in

Sores.

She liked my jewelry and my dress,

Commenting on it the way my dead mother would have.

Anyway, this homeless woman,

To whom I gave some amenities that were in the scheme

Of things as paltry as offering

To piss on a jellyfish bite that was sustained

Months and months ago –

It was nice just to be there with her.

But there have been times,

Yes indeed,

When I tried out tsk-tsking.

I’m speaking to you now,

Ghost of my Mom.

There was a day when I called the mental hospital where

You’d been placed in an involuntary 72 hour hold.

The first time I called the phone number

(it’s just payphones in places like this if you

Want to speak to a patient –

Trust me, I know)

I spoke with a patient who tried his best

To help locate you for me.

“She’s a white lady with sort of frizzy hair and

A dead tooth?” he confirmed.

Yes.

He didn’t know where you were and

That was fine,

He’d tried his best.

So the next time I tried the nurse’s station,

To speak about you behind your back.

“How is she doing?” I asked.

“She stays in her room.  They’re supposed to participate in

The activities, they’re not supposed to stay in their
rooms all day but we can’t make them participate in

The groups.”

I did the sighing version of tsk-tsk.

“Sigh,” I sighed to her in my best impression of someone

Who believes in capitalism and the sexist practice of psychiatry.

I made it sound like, “What can I do?  She’s so stubborn, so irresponsible.”

I was wearing a viscose blouse and ugly slacks as I made this call,

Trying for some privacy by standing under the stairwell where

The office I worked in stashed all their industrial-sized recycling bins.

I’d been on the phone with the nurse from your place of captivity

For almost 15 minutes and that was how long my break was.

So I wrapped it up, before my boss or the other secretary I

Shared my office with noticed I’d been gone for two or three minutes

 Extra.

But in truth, my boss was a bit of an asshole,

And the secretary a bit of a sanctimonious bitch.

And if I’m being honest,

The nurse who answered the phone at your final

Facility for captivity

Was a bit of a shit head.

And I was a bit of a drone,

A wet blanket,

An ineffectual female version of a Eunuch.

What would you call that?

Just a bore, I guess.

Anyway,

This was the last facility you’d ever be placed in.

You hightailed it out of there as soon as your

72 hours were up

Because you wanted to get home to your

Six hightailed cats and make sure they were

Okay.

You were the “crazy catlady,” I guess it’s called sometimes.

You were the “pack-rat” I guess they called it.

But you were an animal,

And that’s more than I can say for myself.

Here's Mud in Your Eye

I already borrowed from this old art project of mine (something from my early twenties) once, in a 2014 post about self portraiture -- it's just a bunch of self-portraits ("selfies," now) that I took when I was crying, which was something I did for years starting in my teens, mixed in with self-portraits my mom sent me of herself being sad, and captioned with lines from Dorothy Parker stories, in the vein of sad girl chic I'm always so fond of.   Here are 6 of my favorites, on this the week before the first anniversary of her death.  

Birthday Card Book

IN keeping with the more than usual focus on my mom, who passed away almost a year ago now,  here is a book she made me for my 14th birthday.

 

South Pasadena Poem

South Pasadena

It’s always the same.

Well, more or less.

I always –

Almost always –

Envy the healthy older men –

Clear retirees –

So secure,

And the smooth-haired younger

Women exiting their

Well-washed

Volvos etc

Whenever I make my brief sojourn from

The parking lot to the ATM

In the nearby rich neighborhood

That Mom and I always –

Almost always –

Admired through the bus window when I

Was a kid.

I will almost always

Think of her

When I hear Prince on the radio

Because she texted me last year

“Did you know Prince died?  Only 57, how sad.”

And then she died the next month.

On the radio I’ll hear the song about his wary

Admiration of a loose woman or the one where

He just wants to party his sadness away

And I’ll think of how surprising and sweet it was that

Mom cared about his death – 

she of the Beatles

And Vivaldi.

She, a white woman raised in the midcentury midwest.

I’ll always eat candy when it’s around 

(during children’s holidays, usually)

And then glimpse my

Chipped yellow teeth in the mirror and

Decide that I’m sort of disgusting

But also sort of appealing

In a furtive burrowing animal sort of way.

But still,

I’ll practically always envy those strangers

With nice white teeth,

Other people who look less lonely and

Richer than me,

By far,

Women with unscathed and milkily lovely

Chests and capable-looking men

Who walk around with

Their easy hands stuffed easily

In the pockets of their shorts

So smug, like “Who, me? 

I’m just enjoying the day.”

My mom's Favorite Holiday

this was an easter card mom made me when i was a teenager.