Look

Look

there used to be
a candy bar
i liked
as a kid
Look
was its name
came in a red
wrapper
chewy nougat, nuts
a molasses flavor
covered in
dark
chocolate sweet crunchy
yummy
i loved this Look
but there was
another type of
Look
in my childhood that
i didn’t save quarters for
didn’t run into the drug store after
this one
wasn’t a treat
wasn’t sugary-sweet
this Look was fed
without wanting
to me
from my mother.

in 1969 she had
3 teenagers
was starting to inhale
freedom
when some
thing
rooted itself
inside her womb

symptoms
she thought
where the start of
menopause
turned out to be
the beginning of
me
a blonde
blue-eyed
prison
those multi-colored
stripes
on my dress
the one i loved to
twirl
around in
didn’t say pretty rainbow
to her
only said
jail

that’s my
crime
making her serve more
time.

i make her pay with
my colic
my tantrums
that involve teeth
marks
clumps of pulled out hair
on the floor
flaming hot cheeks
of anger, my maddening way
i eat bacon
methodically separating the fat from
the thin red rivers
of meat, my perfect vision
of how i want my hair
making her style it over
and over
until the ponytails are even
the part arrow

straight
how I waste twelve or more
pieces
of paper because
in the upper right-hand corner
my name absolutely must be
level

that girl
i can understand
deserved a
Look.

but what about when
the Look
came out with
no reason
no provocation of
juvenile insanity to
make it appear
there it is
at breakfast
hovering over my eggs or
after school
when i get in the Chrysler
and she drives off with her
stone face and mouth
in a sad clown down turn
or sitting on my
father’s lap
the reading done
the start of tickling, giggling
fun
in the corner
ironing shirts
sewing my skirt hem she
throws a dark
expression my way
getting a snack
strawberry milk
the glass of pink
slips
out of my small hands
shatters to the ground

the Look comes into
the kitchen
casts a threatening shadow
over me
doesn’t hear
sorry or
accident
only sees
mess
some thing
to clean-up.

that girl
didn’t understand
that kind of anger
thrown her way
that girl
gets nervous, anxious of
anything, everything
gets a ding, deep inside
a bruise
blooms
purple-blue
on her heart

that girl
memorizes the words of
black text
written all over her mother’s
face

that girl
becomes
a woman
that marries
gets pregnant
has a baby
falls into
depression
barely hangs on
with a newborn to
care for
a tiny daughter
looking up & into
her own mother’s sad
dark expression…

i go to therapy
tuesdays
smell of stale coffee
in the air and minutes ticking off on an
egg time I crack
open
share the language i
learned to understand from my
mother
of the body, the face
the unsaid
that said
so much
i wish for a code
long for a legend
to understand the
Look

a saved santa letter
found
in a plastic bin
in my closet
provides a sad
commentary
begins
“i know
i haven’t been
good”
continues
not deserving
of a new
stretch armstrong
blue holly hobby dress or a
captain and tennille record
what i hear
between the faded lines
is a phantom—the little girl me
whispering
what she really
wants
isn’t an easy bake oven
but to be deserving of
her Love.

dusty photo albums
open up
say something
different
captured in snap
shots, again
the unspoken
speaks to me
her face
turned to mine
side view of a smile
half of a rising sun
colored red

another one
her hand holding mine
we walk
along the beach
left to her right
pearl to oyster

then this
picture
of the lake with
white ducks
we’re both in
coats of
blue
she kneels behind me
her arms across
my body
a fence of flesh
trying to keep me
safe…

Look
a she-wolf in a
gray wool sweater
in my own hall
i display
a picture of me/the wolf
& my little girls
cheek-to-cheek
all big-eyed and
smiling
happiness captured
nailed to the wall
end of story
not at all
tell the truth
this is the image
i we all
want think believe
childhood/motherhood
is about
but its only half
the recipe
there are these
beautiful true
pink frosting teddy bear
teacup party lollipop
butterfly cookie green grass
moments
but i also know
other moments are
developing
coming into focus
in the dark
rooms of
my children’s subconscious
that will surface
later, proof
of when i
failed them
what will stick?
will it be when i
screamed shit
around their innocent ears or when i
slammed a palm down hard
on a kitchen counter and
said how tired i am of being
their 24/7 servant or when i
couldn’t hide the boredom of little
kid world?
hurt disappoint sadness

it will rise up
i will be accountable
i know
because i’m on
the other side now
& its not
about easy digestion
mothering as simple sugar
there is no aisle in the store
to buy a brightly wrapped
Mother
someone that is 100%
good
for you
goes down
easy
and her
only conceivable
crime
is overflowing
sweetness

Look
maybe this
mother/child
thing
is supposed to have some
black, some bad
added in
what cake tastes good/what life is interesting
without a little/without a little
salt vanilla & baking soda/hurt tears & let down
things that leave a mouth/things that leave a wound
bitter eaten alone/bitter licked alone
only enrich/only enrich
when mixed in/when mixed in
with the delicious/with the dark
all together is
altogether
beautifulbitterlovelysweetpain

(inspired by email poetry form)