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.