Water

Look up water.

See what books,

so fearful of the subject,

refuse to stay.

Flowers gasp to stay afloat.

His desires spirit him away.

His desire to finger the piano,

her

with or without her face.

The touch of her mind on the water

regal red.

Life and I do not care who we have.

He is

crunched afterbirth.

Weighty Matters

Lately I’m not totally happy with my weight. It isn’t that I want to be thin again. I don’t really. I’d rather eat what I want and be fluffy. I even like being fluffy. I think it suits me more than being skinny. I have disproportionately large breasts, so being skinny just makes me look a little weird in my opinion, like a snake that swallowed two watermelons. But I’d love to be about 20 pounds lighter. I’m definitely more than 20 pounds heavier than slim, but I’d like to lose 20 pounds. I was supremely happy with my weight at 175/180. I like plus size clothes, but I miss having the option to wear regular size clothes. I’m a size 18, so I’m one size too big to shop in regular departments. Gone are my days of shopping at Macy’s.

The problems are these: I like food, I’m on heavy psychiatric medication, i have hypothyroidism, and I cannot do my old favorite forms of exercise very much. I used to be really in to walking and for the past year or more I’ve been unable to really take a good long walk because of my problems with my foot – problems two foot surgeries have not fixed. Walking was my favorite form of exercise. I used to go on nightly one hour walks, with a little bit of running thrown in.

I need to find a new form of exercise. I’m thinking of swimming, but I don’t have a pool and it is time consuming to drive to the pool. Plus, the pool lap swimming hours don’t work with my schedule. I’d love a trampoline to jump on, but we are moving to military housing in January when we go to Colorado and I don’t think trampolines are allowed there – and it isn’t worth the money to buy one for just one summer and fall. And honestly, I’m not sure how much impact my foot can really take. My problem tends to be more with bending my foot than putting impact on it, but impact hurts too.

Then I think I could count calories again, but I don’t miss the days of my life where I counted calories. It was miserable. I don’t want food, or the lack of it, taking up that much space in my head. I don’t want to count everything I eat. Still, if I want to get back in to size 16s or 14s I need to eat less and move more.

Why does size matter? Why can’t they make the same clothes in all sizes? And why do I put this pressure on myself? Society tries to put pressure on me, but I don’t read fashion magazines anymore and I’m old enough to pay no mind to the tv, so I don’t know if that is where the pressure is coming from. My husband doesn’t put pressure on me and loves me the way I am.

Am I really unhappy with my weight or am I unhappy with something else? Sometimes unhappiness about other areas of myself manifests in unhappiness with my weight. Even when I was skinny I was miserable about my body because I was miserable about other things. So how do I separate my feelings about my body from my feelings about other things? How does one love their body the way it is and yet try to change it at the same time?

I can’t put pressure on myself to lose weight, or I’ll go too far. You’d never know it to see me now, but I used to have two eating disorders. I’m an obsessive person by nature. Calorie counting becomes the focus, vomiting becomes regular. I don’t ever want to go back to that. But why is it that sometimes I can love myself the way I am and other times I can’t? How do you lose weight without dieting? How can I enjoy life and enjoy the foods that I like while still making sure I don’t go up a dress size? And why am I not good at this balance? Being size 18 is not bad, but I’d like to be a 16 or a 14, and I don’t want to go up to a 20 as I get older.

How can I get happy with my weight again, either by losing weight or by loving myself as I am?

Forbidden

Her name is Tracy and she looks at men all day

on screens and streets and books.

She is made of desires women are not supposed to have,

her sisters rendered blind by modesty.

Her dearest friend looks only at the swirl of turquoise

feelings that envelope her man

and never the back or the shoulders that Tracy hungers for

at every party,

unwrapping him from his suit while her friend prays over the meal.

And what no one knows except the pantry of his brain,

is he longs to be kissed by her lashes,

loves to be seen as a thrill,

as a man sees a woman

and a woman is forbidden to see a man.

The Yellow Sound

The Yellow Sound

 

She is Juning at a pale farmhouse table,

a gingham table cloth singing to the rhythm of the breeze.

Sunlight sinks sonorous into her dark,

scintillating hair.

Her breath,

her summer rainbow of colors,

her cornucopia of warm feelings –

joy, ecstasy, bliss,

and their pastel coated cousin contentment,

blend in a sweet yellow hum

hovering around her.

He looks at her.

this woman of glow and pure yellow sound

and he wonders how one can contain

heat,

happiness,

music.

Father and Daughter

Religion and faith

are best friends,

are enemies.

The law is a locket with His picture and

my neighbor’s picture inside.

I build cathedrals from beads and bubble gum.

I am a girl safe

in her Father’s arms,

dressed in silk and velvet,

diamonds at my throat.

He covers my war-torn wrists

in rubies.

 

Love

A bush with two roses –

one grousing grouchy.

Grungy soul like the nineties sat on it.

Gray clouds seep slightly,

a spray paint making skin more clear

through coverings.

 

He cut me and I bled green

because I was young.

Because he removed a thorn,

I shook down to my roots.

 

With his pocket knife he smoothed me

from heel to head and I became a rose

the envy of every other rose.

 

An Absence

An Absence

 

Names filled with letters and liquor.

A twist tie twists and I hear Zest taking the

garbage out.

I want a county style day,

where those roads I love

take me from people I don’t.

The places are eager for touch.

My thigh draws his hand closer

our skin fusing under the heat of the windshield.

 

After the detergent is bought,

and the bookstore has pinned us against the wall

and takes our money, we go down the roads again

to laze and lounge

in the house of pasta we built.

 

But now the roads are curled away from me.

His hand has greater work than joy for now,

in places that growl low in the night.