Time, Reflected

The feelings I write,

the feelings I give

today I ponder time

and a clock strung with string

and the powerful men

of tomorrow

when I take a stake

in my own power,

honey,

when I sip tea and drink juice

(smoothies, preferably)

I feel mad at times,

and worried at times

past and future “tick” by

but present

molds,

holds,

unfolds

in the up-down motion of an eyelid,

the snowflake melting on your palm,

the silence when dad shows up

but not mom.

It is in these spaces that time was invented,

and dreams were had

where forgiveness was a portal

within a portal

and sand did not make the hour glass –

it was the ocean that made the glass,

the sea whispering home

as I recount

powerful men,

and the flipping of coins,

and the thrill of a poem

well ended.

 

inspired by the work I saw at chanorth art residency: https://www.instagram.com/chanorthartresidency/

cover art: https://www.instagram.com/dannibellandostudio/

 

July 29, 2019

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at the ocean

my intention,

my desire,

my secret wish

is to simplify life.

 

many men

have tried It;

we heard about it.

 

It didn’t work.

 

many women

have tried It;

we didn’t hear about it.

 

(proof enough) It didn’t work.

 

we searched for It

in churches and mosques,

temples and tall, gray shopping malls.

 

we listened for It

at TED talks, college lecture halls

and sports stadiums with 80,000 seats.

 

when fate

grants you power,

what do you do with It?

 

men decided to seek It only in themselves,

simplicity and peace and glory

owned by one hand, one heart, one tear.

 

I ask: where does the tear come from?

Where does the water come from?

I’ll start by listening there.

 

March 18, 2016.

after the game

when

all

I

want

to do

is scream

about the patriarchy

but I know I’d just

perpetuate

a stereotype

what am I supposed to do

when I score a goal on you

and you act like I’m a tree

whose branch luckily swayed

in the right direction

what am I supposed to do

when I tackle you

as well as some dude

but my lack of maleness

makes you stutter

I’m not sorry

that girls can do

what you can do;

I am not sorry

that, sometimes,

we do it better, too.

 

I am 24 years old,

playing a game I love

more than men

for 20 and have been playing

with them, side by side,

for the same.

 

I’ve always loved being the underdog.

 

but why can’t you

just put your head down like you do

when your friend nails a freakin maradona

these things are not so hard to do

when we treat this sport like a drug

admit that it’s mine, too;

that just because your body

can lift 200 pounds doesn’t mean

mine can’t kick your ass

with a soccer ball

that’s all I want:

the chance to come to a game,

ponytail in tow,

and still feel like I belong

to something that was here

long before I called it my own,

long before I learned

that girls aren’t supposed to do

what boys do.

 

all the friends and teams,

games and sprains, fields

and nails to the head,

bruised knees and toes,

championships and titles later

 

and these guys still insist

I need to prove myself.

 

I am not a tree

standing in the wind.

 

I am a woman–

and a pretty damn good soccer player.

 

March 4, 2016