Circus

Come one come all, before its too late
The circus is shutting down
Bid farewell to those who have made you laugh
(Since that wasn’t actually the goal.) You were meant to be amazed. But the balance
Was too damn hard to maintain. Same goes for the wild animals. Seems that control
Was merely an illusion. After all, this is a circus

Closing down is the only realistic thing to do. After all, keeping three crazy rings of a circus
Going is hard work. All those balls in the air all the time? So, sometimes dinner was late
Grab some popcorn, circus clowns, balanced dinners don’t necessarily mean control
If no one’s on fire and the tents are staked down
Why should I worry about losing my balance
Up on the tightrope, juggling knives, fire, self-worth. Isn’t it enough to have tried?

Go on, you try it. Bring home some bacon, fry it up. You’ve never tried
Using an advanced degree to bring order to this place, to manage this circus
The key, they’ll tell you, is finding balance
Which takes nerve wracking soul-searching and 36-hour days. Never-mind. It’s too late
I’m done. Just let me pack up the peanuts and crackerjacks. Take the striped tent down
And I’ll be off. What’s that? You think I’ve lost it? Finally lost control?

That may be but I’ll let you in on a secret: It was all just an illusion. A magical illusion of control
You want me to stay? Fine, but the illusion act has to go. I have tried
Too hard and the effort has worn me down
Let’s try instead for a free-range circus
Our monkeys will jump on their beds and stay up way too late
And if we have pancakes for dinner sometimes so what? We can always balance

It out with a nice big salad for breakfast. Can’t balance
Be about something more than delivering what’s expected. Can’t it be about losing control
And surprise! finding yourself? I don’t know, maybe its not too late
For me, I only tried
To do it the way they expected. Keeping it all together. A clean, well lit, orderly circus
But it wore me way down

I don’t know, maybe I should wait before I untie the last stake and pull down
The big tent. It certainly seems impossible, but maybe just one last shot at balance
What if the answer is that the circus
Works best without a set schedule. With no predetermined ideologies. No tight control
If I’m going to be honest that’s the one thing I never tried:
Relaxing my grip. Who knows? Maybe I can learn to go with the flow, if I’m not too late

Perhaps our circus could prosper with the tightrope torn down
With the popcorn popped late and no attempt even at balance.
For the illusion of control is just that, a mirage, best relinquished once tried.

First Date

First date
What a sucker was I
For romance the likes of which I haven’t seen since, fancy food, plentiful drink
Comparing art, discussing weighty issues I’m sure
We were so witty so irresistible back then, that first Saturday
That first night

Way back when, when Saturday night
Meant dressing to impress, and not knowing what to expect from a date
(You know how first dates can be…) Was I nervous that Saturday
A million years ago? I would have been, I was so young, wasn’t I?
Remember what weekends meant, back then? Different now for sure
But back then anything could happen, would happen if perhaps a strong drink

Materialized to help move things along. Alas these days it takes but one drink
To put me out for the night
Not that I wouldn’t love to stay up, discuss world events, I’m sure
Even sex sounds great, that is if we could just skip the date
Part. You know how exhausted I
Get. Who can be bothered what with dinner, wine and a movie. I know, next Saturday

We’ll send the sitter out with the kids, for dinner somewhere on Saturday
And we will stay home with a bottle of our own to drink
You can tell me how it used to be, back when I
First fell for you, though I see now it must have been a ruse, that night
Was too perfect, wasn’t it? Not real, the city air was not full of soft music, that first date
It must have been me caught up in the newness of you, before I knew for sure

Through the haze of years newness and uncertainty seems harsh, though I’m sure
My younger self, an addict to excitement, would scoff at my ideal Saturday
Which has crept closer to quiet. Some kind of spell has kids upstairs asleep and our date
Begins curled up on the couch, a movie to watch and wine to drink
Crazy is making it up ‘til midnight
Stealing moments before sleep when again you and I

Laugh. Maybe about something the kids said, or maybe about something I
Heard on the radio and made sure
To remember. A detail to savor and share with you should we get the chance at night
To connect. That’s the wonder of Saturday
Stolen time carved from chaotic life. We smile and clink and drink
A toast to our first date

12 years ago it was you and I
On that first date. Young, insecure, unsure
Not yet knowing we’d have many more Saturdays to share a drink

The World, Their Stage

Brave new world, big wide stage, brand new play
Act one: we watched enrapt, they peed, they cried, and yes! rolled-over
Each coo, each rash, something to document, and treasure
Our days now, unpredictable to a lesser degree. Harder to quantify, as each stage
Pounces, unannounced, and catches us unprepared
For mean girls, dirty looks, loose teeth

All those books, yet not one chapter dedicated to the value of lost teeth
We struggle to decipher tears and fevers, but what to pay? How to play
At tooth fairy? Welcome back, proud gummy grin, you caught me unprepared
Won me over
To this post-baby phase where stage after stage
Flies by, blows in with wonder, and pain. I am learning to slow down, to treasure

Unexpected moments. In the quiet eye of the storm I sift for treasure
Buried within life’s unpredictable debris. Kindergarten past in a flash, now teeth
Are jumping ship. Actors in their own right, manning their stage
With confidence, (dare I say perfection?) Redefining their roles, it’s their play
They decide on their own who they will be, this bowls me over
I may sit here unprepared

But they are ready to conquer the world. Not anxious, never unprepared
Though I would affix training wheels to their sides, protect my treasure
Raise them like so much veal, sheltered until all storms blow over
But no, I know they must cut their teeth
Fall down and bloody their knees. First bike. First grade. First time singing in a play
Belting out their own tunes on such a big stage

Ready or not, here they come, my baby (not a baby, I know) up on stage
Brave loud proud, it is not my child who is unprepared
Raring to go, she doesn’t need me to orchestrate her days, her play
How many sleepless nights did I think eagerly of the treasure
Of this independence? Ridiculous to miss those teeny tiny teeth
They march enthusiastically onward. What about me? Should I start over

With diapers, and endless nights and life splattered out all over
What a mess. But the awe, the awe of each achievement, each stage
Was incredible, remember? Sitting up. Reaching a cheerio. Cutting new teeth
Of course we were laughably unprepared
Who could anticipate the momentous weight of such a tiny treasure
Rendering our lives forever unrecognizable. Suspenseful mystery, this play

Gone are baby teeth, and it’s time for me to get over
it. Embrace plot twists in the play. I may be gripped with stage
Fright, unprepared. But look how sweet my treasure.

What Baby Showers Bring

Another baby shower, mama-to-be aglow, look closer, see how she squirms
Uncomfortable in the spotlight
Awkward, uneasy, unsure yet exclaiming appropriately, (she is so appropriate)
Her squeals match the others, oooh how cute, yes, so sweet, oh so tiny
Surely she can sense there is reason to be scared
She sits, smiling, yet surely she longs to run from the room screaming

All around her the experienced mothers sip tea, ignore the screaming
Of their own snot-nosed brood, a single gal (friend from college) squirms
Wishing she were anywhere but here, more uncomfortable than scared
As breast pumps and nipple shields take center stage, before the spotlight
Again returns to cute burp cloths, onesies with dancing bears, so tiny
And green, approving mothers nod, appropriate

For either boy or girl, for this mama refused technology, thought it appropriate
Simply to wait. To be surprised. Ha, they laugh, the midnight screaming
And inconsolable wails will be surprise enough. Soon she’ll be wrestling with twenty tiny
Fingers and toes as darling baby squawks and squirms
And steals the spotlight
While she huddles in the dark, in over her head and scared

But look quick and you’ll catch them, subdued behind false giggles of “don’t be scared!”
Though if you are that’s ok (aren’t their nods reassuring?) It’s totally appropriate
But hey, what if we spun that spotlight
Around, shined it on those who’ve got their shit together (inside, you know, they’re screaming)
At night though children sleep deeply, they lay awake and squirm
Nostalgic for sweet little fingers, and impossibly tiny

Toes. That all seems so easy now, looking back on the days of tiny
Diapers and plaintive cries. Now there is so much more to be scared
Of. Mean girls focused on her own sweet daughter who squirms
Blames mother, who unjustly refused her that outfit. Too much skin! Not appropriate!
She never thought herself the type to say such words, so un-cool. The screaming
That results a far cry from the whimpers of a hungry baby. Yes, turn the spotlight

On those mothers, they’re not so smug anymore. See what the spotlight
Illuminates. Their naked longing for the simplicity of tiny
Babies so easily soothed, just a little warm milk stops the screaming
You see, those mothers, with such ready answers about your newborn, are scared
They don’t know the rules anymore or what to expect. No idea really what’s appropriate
For their own school-aged babes. New stages keep advancing, see how they squirm.

There would be lots more screaming if the spotlight
Revealed us, caught the fear as we squirm, fear once insignificant and tiny
Blooms full grown. We are scared, which is of course, only appropriate

Pink

My house drips with a sticky glaze of pink
Weak confections, bubble gum and cotton candy, things my little girls
Were not supposed to be made of. I pry my mind open
Like I once believed it was. Before. Before hazy fuchsia light
Dimmed my sight, and fluffy tulle tangled my legs. I misjudged the princesses.
Powerful. No damsels in distress. They have taken over my world

With their tiny toes and narrow waists, they lord over my girls’ world
Luring them in with plastic baubles. I am disoriented, coated in pink
My opinions strong and rational do not hold sway with the princesses
Hypnotic, unblinking eyes, pointy painted nails sink deep into the flesh of my girls
Who are drawn like pathetic moths to dazzling sparkles of light
It’s scary. The pull is so strong. The Disney precipice gapes open

Like an angry wound, into which my dreams for their futures are splashed open
Driven, brilliant, hungry to learn, empowered to change the world
They could be anyone, do anything under the guiding light
Of my lofty aspirations, crushed to dust under an unforgiving spike of pale pink
It’s in the water I myself feed to the girls
Who turn from me. Blissfully trading their souls to the princesses

Cinderella, dust rag in hand, proves formidable, as do the other princesses
Whom I dutifully applaud. Though tears hover in my eyes, they are now open
Watching them spin and laugh, then kick the stupid shoes aside, for my girls
Realize they’d rather run free. After all, there’s a whole wide world
Out there to be conquered. Ski helmets mounted on tiny shoulders are shocking pink
Hot pink with the exhilaration of life. Like their eyes, blazing and alight

With pure joy. They own the mountain, on clunky ski boots, they are fast and light
And sturdy and serious, and I think I see the princesses
Eating their dust. Quiet, demure, the pathetically soft pink
No match for the vivid color in their cheeks. Eyes mischievous, minds open
To the possibilities of the wondrous world
The princesses folded in the corner, neglected at last, for my girls

Have found power in a different pink and have moved on. My girls
Ski, and dive deep into blue water, and hide in the dark with a flashlight
That illuminates a world
Cracked wide open and able to hold without conflict both worms and princesses
Their minds, so open
And mine considers finally the possibility of pink

It is their world, they own it, my girls
Including the feared pink, dark and light
Equal opportunity princesses, in their hands is the world cracked wide open

Expecting

First comes love, then comes marriage. Now comes baby
It will be all they are expecting
And more. She is blushing, beautiful. Pregnant, perfect, normal
She is exhilarated as she prepares her body
Prenatal vitamins, prenatal yoga. The perfect cocoon, her womb ready
I am in control, she thinks, and is completely happy

She hears horror stories, sick babies, and feels guilty for being so happy
For her blood and urine hold the promise of a perfect baby
She splashes non-toxic paint, sunny yellow, making the room ready
She is hungry for information. Women who know tell her what to be expecting
Talk of pain laughed off. The epidural (wink wink) takes you out of your body
That pain (they hold the wisdom of the world) is not normal

What does she know of normal
Her hand feels the rhythmic kicks, and she sighs, tired, but happy
Resting on the deep knowledge, nestled somewhere in her body
That tells her, as it has all women before, how to grow her baby
That’s where she got stuck, at the baby. She hadn’t thought to be expecting
Anything more. Which is why she wasn’t ready

Which is why, sliced open, she felt cheated. Angry. Blindsided and not ready
To explain her feelings, which they told her were not normal
Those who would offer comfort were not expecting
Her to care so much. Why couldn’t she just be happy
With that beautiful baby
Cooing, curled up and warm on her serrated body

She couldn’t explain it, why suddenly her body
Mattered. Overwhelming love, midnight feedings, for this she was ready
She would gladly have cut off an arm for a perfect baby
Or get sawed in half, she jokes, but they don’t find this funny, it’s not normal
That she cares about this, when she should just be happy
She got a healthy baby. That’s all she had been expecting

She didn’t know enough to see that she was expecting
More. She is selfish, unappreciative. Furious with her body
For its betrayal. But really it just did as it was told. She had been more than happy
To soak up the stories. Eager to avoid feeling. Easier that way, to pretend she was ready
Maybe they are right. She isn’t normal
Needing more. Ridiculous, when here she has a perfect baby.

Years later she will be happy, again expecting
A perfect baby. Experience and knowledge fill her body
Which stands ready, prepared for birth, age-old, normal.

Eleven Years Old

It smells
Like laundry and pine needles and restless girls
Bunked together in a stuffy cabin, damp and cool
Darting eyes search, awkward bodies gather in old sweatshirts for warmth
Fingers of rain tap against foggy glass, insistent and impatient
Drawing the girls out, offering freedom to the young and wild

A cleansing rinse in the deluge. Upturned faces joyful and wild
Scrubbed pink. Urged to forget inequitably doled out changes and unfamiliar smells
Raindrops dance with happy girls, brave, not too impatient
To grow up. The storm is the kingdom of little girls
Back in the cabin, trials with makeup, piercings, budding bodies ripe with warmth
Emit an uncontrollable heat, urging little girls to slow down, be cool

The summer air, washed clean, releases the burden on narrow shoulders to be so cool
Still, showers of pine needles carry a hint of something wild
Steam rises from wet grass as warmth
Returns suddenly. She catches something, smells
Fall in the air like a promise, and walks away unnoticed, from the other girls
Who like her are uncertain, and impatient

The unfamiliar aches in her body leave her anxious and impatient
The breeze shake youthful tangles in her hair, blows cool
Branches against bare arms yet offer protection from the prying eyes of the girls
Who judge, as she too now does, with labels that stick, too timid, too wild
Too fast, too slow. Rebellious urges locked in small bodies, musky smells
Alone in the wet branches, she sighs, hidden, safe in the embrace’s warmth

Night’s fire glows hot, but inclusion in the huddle offers real warmth
Giggles over blackened marshmallows, melted chocolate, impatient
For the innocent stickiness of s’mores, the way that childhood smells
When girls can be just girls for a little longer, buried under blankets against the cool
Night. The nurturing fire holds back the mantle of wild
Flickering soft light, innocent smiles, sweet girls

Boys will be boys they say, but what of our changelings? Our girls
Who struggle to choose—which path will provide warmth,
When is it ok to let loose and scream, to be wild
It’s a trick, there are penalties for each choice. She is alone, worried, impatient
Stomping muddy boots into hard ground, she hopes she seems aloof enough, cool
Wet ashes from the night fire mix with early morning smells

The rugged landscape, wild, releases the awkward girls
Amid a confused gumbo of smells, pine scented air, stifling warmth
Which way to go, impatient, burning hot, trying to be cool