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I would get lost on a path
I would get wet under a roof
I would be jolted awake by silence
No one else can come to the rescue
It’s just me vs. the jackhammers
the narcissists the black holes the ignorant
the sirens and the mass of melting neurons
My cup has been emptied
Every drop leaking out before
I can bring it to my lips
I know I am not the only casualty
The brilliant rainbow and the fluffy white clouds are littered with bodies
I am not special
But I once was
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A cracked straw instead of the
commemorative cup
A rash where the
bandage was stuck
Scrapbooks filled with electrode stickers
and parking garage receipts
Emptied plastic sleeves whose cookies
were reduced to crumbs
and whose taste my tongue has forgotten
The pulsing cacophony of
machine rhythms
keeps vibrating in my brain
long after the
connections are severed
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I am a pitcher pouring cool water into your cup
I am a clock taking its own time
I am a spiral staircase stepping up to the stars
I am the stitching of the quilt that you snuggle underneath
I am a match determined to ignite
I am a curl standing out from the crowd
I am a bear defending every cub
I am the opalescent wings fastened on
so I can fly
I am a rivulet of strawberry ice cream dripping pinkly down the side of a waffle cone
I am a pair of dice rolling the
wrong combinations
I am a broken heart that’s tender to the touch
I am a puddle showing you your reflection
I
I am a pitcher pouring cool water into your cup
I am a clock taking its own time
I am a spiral staircase stepping up to the stars
I am the stitching of the quilt you snuggle underneath
I am a match determined to ignite
I am a curl standing out from the crowd
I am a bear defending every cub
I am the opalescent wings fastened on
so I can fly
I am a rivulet of strawberry ice cream dripping pinkly
down the side of a waffle cone
I am a pair of dice rolling the wrong combinations
I am a broken heart too tender to touch
I am a puddle showing your reflection
I am a third door opening to a different world
I am the sunlit clearing when you emerge from the woods
I am buttery words spilling off the page like tight kernels bursting into hot popcorn
I am sometimes the salt
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Somewhere, somehow,
among the thrill of
knocking $40 off my total
at CVS (thanks to the
careful collection of
Extracare coupons)
three trips to Target on
three consecutive days to
find,
return,
find,
return,
and find
the appropriate school supplies
endless sorting and dissemination of
unwanted and outgrown items
(on Buy Nothing,
to Goodwill,
and literally left on the curb
in the hopes of making some passerby’s day
and saving myself another task),
I got lost.
Throw in the mix
obsessive playing of games
on my phone–
NYT crossword
Spelling bee
Wordle
so much
matching of tiles.
I am a sucker for
those teeny
tiny
hits
of dopamine.
Plus the undefined hours
since I took time off
to be with my kids
this summer
now they’re back in school
the enormous amount of
space in my brain taken up
by thinking about them
and doing my best to
advocate
encourage
nurture
without
helicoptering
smothering
alienating
There have been
many
naps.
Some amount of
guilt
about the naps.
But not always.
Underlying
all of this
is the fractured
uncertain sense of
community that comes
from living through
a pandemic
for three years.
I crave
belonging.
I have
felt adrift.
I need
purpose
to shape my life
meaning to
tie it together.
Yet the world still
unravels.
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They only ask for the impossible
It is up to me to make it real
They live in worlds of their own creation
I commute back and forth, hurtling through space when I am summoned
They commandeer my body, almost as insistently as when they were babies
Even now they want a snack and need a snuggle and ask me to stay until they fall asleep
They want me to guess their secrets, to read their minds, to understand what they can’t quite speak
Sometimes I do. Sometimes I can’t. Sometimes it’s too raw too much too painful to take in. I don’t have it in me anymore to pretend otherwise.
They want to be with me and away from me at the same time.
They only ask for the impossible
It is up to me to come up with an answer
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What is it called
when you’ve been
hiding inside
for so long
that when it’s safe
to emerge
you are reluctant
to embrace
your freedom
not quite
trusting
the invitation
What’s the word
for when you
can only
sit on a bench
watching people
who are probably
your friends
but whom you can’t
quite recognize
talk to each other
and laugh
you assume
they are smiling
too
What does it mean
when you’ve
forgotten
how to make
polite conversation
at a gathering of
more than
three people
when most
of the people
seem extraneous
and make you feel
awkward and
ill-equipped
for the world
How do you
follow the rules
when they are
constantly
being rewritten
how do you know
which ones to
obey and
which ones to
ignore
Where do you
find the strength
required
to survive
in the wild
when you’ve
become accustomed
to shuffling
back and forth
in your
designated
enclosure
littered with
all the evidence
of living
© Betsy Rosenblatt Rosso
April 2021
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I give myself unlimited chances
and infinite wishes
That I can choose to grant
I cultivate curiosity
exchange skepticism for wonder
I create simply for creation’s sake
Offering the same opportunity to others
I draw with a thick black marker (chisel tip) the delineation between me and you
And I will shimmer and shine in my own space while you do as you wish in yours
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I have heard that the cracks are where the light comes in
And in the places we were broken we are stronger
That’s what the poets say
But someone has to sweep up the pieces, to find every last one, and set to work with toothpicks and superglue
Because we the people are shattered, scattered, smashed to bits
According to the sages
our scars make us who we are
But to have a scar we must stop the bleeding and heal the wound.
For now the blood still flows
the wounds are open
the battle continues
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Never before
have I been asked
by so many people
to pray
This moment
must require
immense
energy
from all
of us
We understand
(at last)
how much
we are bound
up in each
other
Prayer
(to me)
is intention
not
transaction
So I breathe in
(deeply)
and breathe out
fully
and send
prayers
for
strength
courage
peace
relief
patience
healing
grace
calm
presence
Take what you need
and share
the rest
with
others
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Tell me about despair,
yours, and
I will tell you
mine
Meanwhile, we will
laugh and cry and scream
and threaten to
run away from home
and lose ourselves in
games and stories
and less wholesome vices
and make ourselves get out of bed
again
every morning
though sometimes
we will wear pajamas
all day
Meanwhile, we will
check on each other
more than usual
because we know
what it feels like
to be teetering
on the edge of sanity
(and to fall
over the precipice,
sometimes)
Does this get any easier?
I don’t believe so
Only more familiar
Meanwhile, we offer
absolution to
ourselves
as often as possible
because we tend to forget things
(and people,
sometimes)
because our brains
and our hearts
are overfull
and our bodies
are exhausted
We are making
more messes
and letting them linger
but we are
doing the best
we can
even when it’s not
enough
We are sitting with
our feelings
or under our feelings
(when they become oppressive and heavy)
or eating
our feelings
or telling those damn feelings to
get the hell our of our house
when we have had
ENOUGH
We are listening
to each other
that’s got to be
enough
© Betsy Rosenblatt Rosso (with gratitude to Mary Oliver)
October, 2020
You Ask a Lot of Questions 