the
ones we tell each other,
late
at night or early in the morning
over
coffee & a cigarette,
more
than one if it's a story we've told
over
and over like chain smoking, like
dirty
laundry soaking in the tub, stains
evoking
lost memories of teething, cut
lips,
blood on the sweatshirt where
you
held his head & he bled all over you
&
you want to speak about this love
you
have for other women who listen
intently,
with their own pain showing
&
many cigarettes to carry them
through
the telling.
a
compassionate voice or ear,
the
closeness we feel yet cannot say
because
we're afraid of a label
but
what we really want, I want,
is
someone fearless, a weaver of words
or
truthteller, someone who's not afraid
of
hurting while resetting a bone.
to
talk about the helplessness of being
stuck
in a house with a sick child,
the
boredom that strikes,
the
complaining we do, being called martyr
when
all I really want is to tell someone
how
unfair it is that I'm the only one
they
call for in the middle of the night
&
it's my ears hear them coughing
at
3 a.m. & I can't just lie there.
how
to find out what our own needs are
&
how to take care of ourselves,
not
just wait for him to come home, take over,
pick
up the toys and the pieces, mop up our spills,
how
to find a quiet time, time alone,
time
to think & write.
our
need to be replenished with each other,
filling
up our bowls with sugar & coffee
so
we can tell our stories
not
just talking over fences in the backyard
but
actually getting out & seeing women
doing
the same hard work,
no
pay, no thanks, just their little faces
when
one least expects it, smiling & asking
me
to sing a song about I love you
or
making up a song about superman
all
by himself in the living room.
he
says, go away mom, don't talk (meaning
I
have to do this alone, don't listen
cause
it might not be perfect the first time).
I
send you this in guise of a letter
because
that's the way the words are falling out
of
my fingers. in my mind I hear
the
tapping on keys and it comforts me
at
least I can listen to myself talk
without
talking out loud (for that's
what
crazy women do).
so
I keep on writing & dreaming
trying
to live truthfully
with
my emotions, in my body
and
I hope you do the same.
from
Little Mother, Jennifer Boire
published 1997
