Break it.

Frust

Ration it

Mold White

Spots

Who knows

How Long

Broken and Wrecked

Out to Here

It's a Thought

And Heat

Til I Will

Become

Open

Of You, and You, and Our Being Friends

And I came here to write, to be so beautiful that your heart will crack and the opening of love
will reach you out to me, for the only remedy, the connection of sisters

And I found myself reading, instead. Thinking of my sisters whom I've climbed bunks with,
slept in beds with, hidden behind mattresses for, taken care of and gotten rid of cats for

And my friends, you are my soul incarnate. You are the people I have lived for, ever since
I was nine and I realized that I had no sister, or I was five and I admired my older cousin

I learned ballet to be like her, I slid on the training wheels of ballet slippers, sucked my stomach in
And jealousy dripped from every pore as the girl with my name twirled perfectly, and I stumbled

And you were there, to tell me she didn't matter, by changing the subject and absorbing my mind
Playing a new game, leading your sister, crawling under plants and through piles of leaves

And these are the things we remember when we watch new generations of children, wishing
That our own were forthcoming, painlessly and naturally, because childhood still hooks our minds

Realism is, the travels you take before our coordinates match, and the minutes flying through the earpiece as we giggle and chat hysterically, connected by so much more than a uterus

We are sisters by our own discretion, yes laugh please, you'll know the joke before too long has passed, because we'll refuel on the nourishment of hearing each others' lives spilled into vessels

Pour your experience into my heart, and I will live a richer life, for having known your glow
sweet soul who matches my own soul, laugh deeply for I feel every morsel in vibrant cells


~
(c) Maria Enns 2014, all rights reserved

For Irene, or 'Madly in a Maryland Rain'

I went out and danced
On the night following our talk
about a frolic that seemed to take More than a day
One night in the Maryland rain
I considered but did not cartwheel,
though I got my feet wet twirling in the grass
moving like a lunatic
performing for a neighborhood
seeing diamond dazzling droplets
which litter the clover, loveliest of invasive weeds
with its silver undertones of green

I pause thinking of you, how I cannot lie down

in puddles and rivulets, nor swing to the heavens singing,

a wet drop splatters the crown of my head
and I wheel, graceful in the lamplight
I can be a regular Martha Graham!
I don't mind to get wet
It's just now, the air turns cold
And these icy droplets chill
The bones of my back.


(c) Mia Enns 2014, all rights reserved.

Would you Crow? If you knew?

When to let go? I don't
Know, I just want to be a
Want to feel like a Woman,
You read my mind
Without my knowing I had one
Just want to feel, want to feel
Want to be loved the way you do

I can't help but pursue
And imagine
Where you'd be
If I were to

Shut down my mind
They say
Forget him and move away
I just want to be
Just want to feel
Just want to be treated like
I just want to be a Woman

Skitter and patter across the floor
Your poem
Forevermore, the music I listen to
And the conversations which I can't remember
Bring me to,
Keep bringing me back
To you.

M.E. May 5, 2014

Those Who Are Free, and Those Who Are Circumspect

Community, Unity

Parenting Shares

The Offspring

Of Another Poem

Is This One

Born of

Wiping mouths

Matts and Shelas

Borne to Playgrounds

Dance jams

Prayer meetings

What good is a gathering

With no Potluck?

Cream cheese brownies

Delights all around me

Being small and 

A star amidst

Adults

Who always seem to see you

Though they're beyond your

Range of sight

All is fright

Too many

Too much

Chaos, hectic

Why do all my poems

Turn so south

Just when things were

Getting perfect?

Forgetting,

That nothing

is Perfect.

No parent was, or is

The interpretation

That she 'didn't like me'

Was incorrect

Was doing her best

To correct

Behavior so small,

So starry-eyed

And mistaken

in the ways

of Adults.

She called them dolts

Because Roald Dahl

Said so.

And I was offended,

No!

I liked my dolts.

Mes parents,

Ils sont parfaits, 

Pour moi.

And he thinks I 

Can't speak French

Unless I'm inebriated

But it isn't true!

I just got off to a bad start

Or a false one.

Beaucoup de faux amis,

Tres triste.

Here I go once more, with

Southern dialects

Fixing the denotation which is

Perfect,

Yet circumspect.

Celeste, Dad, Grandpa, Mom-Poppy-Nanny-Mom, Grandpa, Dad, Celeste

Smacking of
produce-sticker bindi's on
eight-year old foreheads
the wall of stickers adhered
to file cabinet mammoths
his office
it's not the one
I remember
as a child
drawing for hours
colored permanent markers
the intense smell
telling myself I was
hardcore badass
at 11
finding mold gardens
in Dad's coffeepot
showing him
'eeee'
He wasn't aware
that growth is everywhere
on the station
on the prairie
where I'd rather be
Grandpa says to me
"You tell your Dad,"
meaning 'come out and see me'
and I do and I don't,
I wish I'd been more adamant
especially at the end
I could have cooked for you
could have spent
more time with love
that was instead given
to unveiling suspicion
a partner who'd be riven
from me in two years

At two years, I put my feet
in Grandpa's boots
Mom said 'so sweet'
and there's a photo
that will last longer
than any of us.

The poppies in her garden
the snake made her abandon
who could ever forget that scream?
and her subsequent hesitation
I don't think we played outside
for weeks at a time
and after, not without
her lifting us like the ground
was hot lava,
the color of poppies
which I connected
with my Poppy
married to Nanny
father of Mom
everything had to rhyme
or match
and sometimes that got me
into trouble
what rhymes with monkey?
Don't say that,
Grandpa got angry.
I was so scared,
what did I do wrong?
Why couldn't I say it?
I hardly dared breathe,
in Dad's truck
bouncing over hills
of grass
and fields of berries.
Grandpa was Santa,
after all,
as I said in the eulogy
making his hometown laugh.
After, they said to me,
"We liked that part,
about him being Santa."
Of course they did.
He instituted the town library.
What could be a better gift,
for every day of every year to come,
other than Christmas.

And I'm most grateful for fruit,
without it I wouldn't be alive.
More in common with a pirate
than I thought originally,
once I began to help Dad at work
and really see
where his living comes from.
Produce stickers don't just appear
on plants grown in the field.
So I don't know where all these ones came from,
diverse and multiple,
here for who knows how long,
a sense of the infinite
as if the scientists
collect and analyze
the colors and the texts
between eight-year-old eyes.

Shards in the Schoolyard

And it hit a nerve
not a note not a poem
which she wrote
oh, an omen
which she thinks
I will 'get', and I don't
so the face falls
like glaze down paper walls
crowning the day
with rainbows, sequins
light which shone
on a concrete pad
a jubilant scene,
I picked at the pavement
scraping my nails to collect
bags of metallic plastic
scraps from a fete,
boosting the mood
singing 'teachers pet'
has she learned her lesson yet?
each friend who dismays
pain goes on for days
into weeks into
tears down cheeks
like glue dripping down paper crowns
parties I'm invited
to stay home from
and the blues
of the lights
on the plastic specks
of bright shards
from the schoolyard
bring me gaiety,
when I'd none of my own
to spare, share, or take home
she could say that I know
but I'm pulling back
from assuming she means
to cause woe
after all, I still grow
through cracks in concrete,
through small holes in beads
threading the crowds
seeing no faces
no more tears
finding a shining place
I gazed for miles
into that jeweled haze
whose sunny light
soothed my nerves
for days

(c) Mia Enns 2013 all rights reserved. do not re-use or republish in any form without written permission from me.