DICHOTOMY

I text Rachel the lyrics from Alison Morissette’s “One Hand in My Pocket:”

                                                                                                  I’m sad, but I’m happy

Sends me triple happy faces with pink heart-eyes in return.

Rachel’s wavering between child and woman; no doubt the same as Alison when she wrote it. Her Babi’s wavering, too— more like Shakespeare’s snail, ‘going backwards.’ I don’t recognize the face in the mirror.

                                                                                                  I’m here, but I’m really gone

Have you ever noticed that old people start to look alike? Zajonc says, “after twenty-five years of marriage, old couples come to resemble each other (from) decades of shared experience.”

Yeah.

Ear lobes droop
Nostrils flare
Chins disappear
Bags under the eyes
Descend, puff up
With an identical
Blue-gray hue

Is it love or is it habit? He’ll talk, I won’t say much. I get up before he wants me to. I feel closer to him when he’s not here. I don’t want to give it a name, give it power.

                                                                                                 I’m sane, but I’m overwhelmed   

It’s up for grabs whether childless couples live longer. One Polish study says, “women lose 95 weeks of life with each child they carry.” If asked to respond to the study, I’d cite an old Spanish expression: ‘little kids, little problems; big kids, big problems.’

A new year and I’m no closer to resolving our family strife, disunion.

Except

there’s Rachel, and triple happy faces with pink heart-eyes.

                                                                                            I’m brave, but I’m chicken shit                                          

My poetry instructor tells us—list five things you know are true.  Number one on my list? Indecision replaces confidence as you grow old.

I was talking to an old friend at a party last week. Used to be a zip-line devotee. Went over a river valley in Ecuador from 6,000 feet.

                                          No more, she said.
                                          Now I hesitate
                                          every step I take out
                                          my front door.

My old friend is not alone …

Based on a 19th-century model, parents could fix everything. My mother used to stand behind me, play “Hearts and Flowers” on an imaginary violin when I got down on myself.  She was a ball-buster.

Where is Fanny when I need her?

                                                        I’m lost, but I’m hopeful.

And food shows up every season. I’ll wash

the fruit jars before recycling them,
cut too close to the curb,
grow my hair out to there,
wear a broom skirt like a real poet,
learn to play the ukulele,
let the litter-box solidify.

—

This poem is the product of a Hybrid Poetry workshop at HVWC. My thanks to all the participants for their input and inspiration.

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Beth SKMorris is the author of two poetry books: In Florida (2010) and Nowhere to be Found (2014). Her work has appeared in Avocet, Artemis, Bridle Path Press (on-line), Broadkill Review, Crosswinds, Lingerpost, and Poetica among others. Beth is a member of the Hudson Valley Writers Center and Poets House in New York.

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