Across America

This is it. 
The way it should be. 
Driving across america. 
The two of us. 
Free-roamers. 
Pick up and leave. 
Go where the wind takes us. 
Through Pennsylvania mountains and golden wheat fields.
With our backs to the wind.
A bowl with a little blue fish in a ziplock bag filled with water sitting in my lap
I'm in pajamas, my "traveling clothes"
The lyrics to Wagon Wheel in my head. 
I know I was born to be a Carolina Belle
And in my heart, no matter where I live, I always will be.

The Fighting Man

I flung him into the filing cabinet, my fists shaking with a rage i had never felt before.  All our years together in the ring man-on-man had never yielded such animosity as I felt now. 

"How could you?  How could you do this to me?"  I howled as I flung him against the desk.  Carbon paper spilled to the floor and i heard a loud clacking sound as his head hit the keys of a typewriter.  My manager had always said to me before a fight, "Coburn, you punch.  You punch hard.  You're not a boxer, you're a puncher.  Get that through your thick head."  Tonight I finally did.

Despite my trade I never had anger management issues.  Not even working my shit job as a clerk, pushing brooms and carrying groceries for stuck-up assholes.  But tonight I learned the meaning of the word 'anger'. 

"Years of playin' in fixed fights kept me from hittin' the big time." I snarled through hits.  "I never had the heart to tell you before.  You ain't shit, Juan.  They keep you around 'cause of that pretty face.  You think you're hot.  You may be the face of boxing today, but let's see how hot you're gonna be after today."

I heard a clatter of things in the hallway.  Probably the janitor.  He was no stranger to brutality.  I kept throwing my fists against Juan's body.  I felt bones crack, and warm, sticky blood flowed across my hands.  Normally I'd be hearing a crowd cheering, but all I could hear was the echo of my baby's screams and the sounds of Juan's pleasure. 

"I told you to stay away from her, pretty boy.  She ain't gonna want you now.  Look at you.  Can't even hold your own in a fight that ain't fixed.  Little bastard.  You stay away form her!"

Juan stared at my in horror, his face contorted and discolored by my fists.  His eyes seemed to look right through me.  I became aware of another presence in the room.  Sobbing and pleading. 

"Daddy, stop!"

I turned around and there was Molly in her pink dress, tears streaming down her face.

"Baby... " I reached a blood-covered hand toward her and she turned and ran.

A Vacation to Heal

No tears for you
No tears for me
Let this vacation be tear-free

A sandy climb
A sunny time
Splash in waters clear and fine

A Sensory Anticipation of Fall

Blueberry pie
Oktoberfest ale
pumpkin spice cookies with raisins
Sugar cookies
Potato soup
Mushrooms with wild rice
cookies and cream
champagne and peaches
maple and whisky
hamburgers with bacon and blue cheese
peppermint patties
Grilled corn on the cob
Fish on an open flame
crisp, tangy apples

The Honeymoon is Over

I wrote this while my husband and I were going through a rough time together.


Will he ever look at me again like I'm the greatest thing in the world?
Like I'm worthy of worship?
Like I'm what all men aspire to have?

Will he ever see someone who isn't broken? 
Who didn't, for a few brief months, belong to someone else?

Will he ever be able to let go of my lead and watch me float back to him?

Will we ever know one another again?

Comfort Grandmother

I wrote this poem after reading an article about the Korean comfort women and the controversy that follows them


Grandmother Seoul sits on the bench next to the bronze comfort woman
and she tells us with a faraway look in her eyes
what it was like to be fifteen.
And people say it didn't happen that way
and she wonders how they can dim the scars on
her arms with their denial

Responsibility

Do distant people on far off planets fear themselves like we do on Earth?
Do they imagine their futures and cringe and weep?
Do aliens roam their streets holding signs made of cardboard predicting doom?
Do they feel senf-satisfied when they recycle a bottle?
Do they criticize the younger generations?
Do they feel nostalgic for simpler times?
Do they blame the schools and the music?
Do they take responsibility for their own ideas?
Do they see themselves reflected in the culture they've created?

A Game

Some days I wake up ready to play the game
Ready to run and play
Ready to win

Other days I long to nap at the beach
not because I want to
but because I feel out of fuel
I can't make myself go

Not because life is too much
but because this body is too broken to handle it
This body doesn't work right,
and for the life of me,
I can't make it play the game

100%

I wrote this poem after the Boston marathon bombing.


100%
100 fucking percent
100% pissed that a race ends with bombs
That a charity event ends in the death of an 8 year-old boy
100% lunacy that we can't enjoy simple, healthy, communal activities
That even spectators lost limbs and blood
100% angry that my iron-count isn't high enough to donate my universal blood
100% heart-broken that another activity has been tainted
That athletes who gave 100% are now left broken, missing legs and feet.
100% confused as to why someone would target families and spectators.

The Smell of Lethargy

Chocolate
Tea with honey and milk
The dishes that need to be done
The trash that needs to be taken out
The anticipation of the rain
Bugspray
Sweat
A full diaper
The promise of dinner,
if only I would get up to make it

Something Someone Once Said to Me

"What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger."
You never realize just how many ways there are to die
until someone has said this phrase to you in the thick of a crisis
Sometimes in order to gain that strength, parts of us have to die
Ignorance, freedom, ideals, dreams
We are not the people we used to be
Parts of us die and fall off like skin
Even the cells in our bodies are constantly dying
to make room for stronger cells
A thicker hide to face the things that kill us.