Dear Shangning:

"Dear Rufus, ... Today a kitten called Jenson was returned to us because of his biting... I wished I could just talk to you to ask you what you were feeling when you bit someone... What were you trying to tell us? What can we do to help Jenson?"

My Dearest Shangning:

You asked about a biting cat. I can answer, but I'm afraid I can't answer directly without first sharing a lot of things that will seem very disconnected. Or they will seem very connected, depending on your perspective.

*

First: not a lot of people know, but I'm divorced. I got married at 19. I thought I was too young, but he wanted to be married, and I thought I'd better go ahead, otherwise he'll dump me.

I wasn't ready. I hadn't finished becoming myself yet. I learned things about myself that were incompatible with what he wanted in a partner. He also lied to himself about who I had been all along. 

Obviously it didn't work out. I wanted to stay together and try to grow back together but his father insisted he divorce me.

*

When I adopted Rufus from The Cats' Cradle, you told me he'd been returned twice already. You also gave me an information sheet about his vaccination history. It said when he arrived on the 13th of April, 2019, the vet estimated that he was 1 year and 11 months old. How old is that in people years? Was he 19 yet? Had he finished becoming himself? Did he learn things about himself that surprised him, or pushed others away?

*

There's this surge of a theme online recently, an attitude for (usually) women who've been treated badly by (usually) men who can't handle them. There are tons of platitudinous quote images to be found if you google "you are not too much." They look like this:

*

My second long-term partner came to me in my mid to late twenties. We had two amazing years together before he went to war in Afghanistan. When he came back, things were much more difficult. I didn't understand what had changed or why, but he no longer seemed to be interested in me. I no longer felt wanted or desired so much as just kept around, and quite often I felt he found me annoying. I spent two more years trying to save things before one night I realized I was planning suicide and stopped myself. I put myself and my dog into my car and drove two days across the US until I arrived at my father's house. I arrived around midnight, crying at his back door, saying, "Can I stay here for a while?"

*

I wonder what it was like for Rufus the first time he was returned to The Cats' Cradle. 

I wonder what it was like for Rufus the second time he was returned to The Cats' Cradle.

*

*

I have so very many flaws. I try to work on them, even though I know I will go to my grave before I finish fixing them all. But I've made a lot of progress on my anger. Once when I was younger, I got so angry I blacked out. When I came to, my mother had been punched in the head and my hand hurt. In my defense, she'd been abusing me for over a decade at the time. I had to run away from home I was so afraid of what she'd do. When I got in touch with my sister, she told me that my mother was in my bedroom, putting my belongings into bags to donate to charities.

I know what it's like to have to heal from trauma. I know what it's like to never be completely healed. I know what it's like to have so many strong feelings that you can't stop yourself from hurting someone. I know what it's like when someone whose love you desperately need instead decides they don't want you anymore.

*

The ex-partner who went to Afghanistan is married now. I found photos online of him and his new wife, whose name is Fawn because of course it is, and they ride horses together, because of course she's into horses, across beaches in low tide and they splash in the surf and laugh at their reflections.

I guess he found his forever home.

*

My ex-husband also married his next serious partner after me. They have so many daughters at this point I've lost count whether it's four or five. She's a child psychologist, I think, or maybe psychiatrist, or counselor. Something like that. Right before he left me he told me a terrible story about childhood abuse he'd been through.

I've also lost count of how many of my exes married their next serious partner after me. Where is my forever home?

*

*

In March of 2020, I left my partner of nearly five years in Korea to move back to Taiwan. It was a happy relationship, but I was unhappy in Korea and was once again fighting suicidal ideation. I had to go back to the last place my heart remembered being happy. Corona was just becoming big news at the time. The borders of Taiwan closed four days after I arrived. In June or July I asked him to marry me, and he said yes. But by August he dumped me.

We were friends for a year and a half before we ever considered dating. He knew exactly who I was during all that time. But I think he started lying to himself about who I was when we got together. Because something that has always been a part of who I am, something he always knew about, came up, and suddenly he declared it a deal breaker.

*

When I adopted Rufus, you told me the story of his rescue. You told me he had loved the smell of a steak restaurant so much that he actually got his head stuck inside a hole in the roof and you had to go and get him out of it.

I can easily understand what it feels like to love something so much you hurt yourself trying to get to it. I wanted to stay with my ex-husband until his father pushed for the divorce. I tried to fix the relationship with the veteran who wouldn't acknowledge PTSD for two years. I think my last partner knew he would eventually dump me when I first left Korea. But I still proposed to him.

When I pictured the story you were telling me, it wasn't Rufus's head I saw stuck in that ceiling. It was my own.

*

Sometimes when I'm angry I lash out. Sometimes when I haven't slept enough, I get cranky. Also, I'm a poet, a chef, and a teacher. I'm a good listener and a caring friend. Honestly overall I'm a great person 99% of the time. But who among us is perfect? Do you know anyone without flaws?

*

Rufus teaches me many things, but most of all he teaches me mindfulness. I suspect I still have some of the ADHD I was diagnosed with in my adolescence because I've never been successful at meditating, despite trying for years. I simply cannot quiet my thoughts for any length of time, and I mean, I truly have tried it so many different ways with different teachers and texts and all sorts of approaches.

Rufus comes to me and he makes this silent, breathy, squeaky meow. And I realize I have my face in my phone and I'm not doing anything important at all. Literally nothing in any of the different apps I'm switching between has any great meaning or will accomplish anything helpful in the long run. So I put it down.

I get down on his level and I start speaking to him. He meows back in that strange, almost-silent way. And he will take as much attention as I want to give him for as long as I will stay focused on him. He never runs off. He stays right there, meowing at me for more.

I know what it feels like to need more.

*

Did you do the time math earlier? I said my ex dumped me in August. I adopted Rufus the first weekend in October. I had been looking for a place to adopt from for over a month. I needed to rescue someone because I needed to believe rescue is possible. That trauma doesn't make us worthless. That a hurt thing can be loved. That a flawed thing can be cared for. That a difficult personality can still attract someone who won't give up on them.

*

*

Another of my exes who married the next serious thing used to make me feel very strange. He was a hardworking capitalist who loved to blow money on his poorer friends. One day I was finally able to put my finger on how he made me feel. He wasn't loving me as a full, complex individual. He liked me as an accessory. Just like he would spend $300 on shirts randomly, to make himself look good, just like he adored his French cuffs with cufflinks, he liked having me on his arm. Me, the poor bartender. The poet. The activist. I gave him a sort of credibility, a boost to his personality. I made him feel good about himself.

A lot of people keep pets without loving them as full, complex individuals. To that ex, I was just a bird in a cage.

*

I work a lot. If I ever go a couple days without really focusing on Rufus for a while, and really giving him attention, I find out. He reminds me. As he's following me from room to room, like he does, at some point he'll let out a strange meow and rush past me, biting my leg on the way. I don't think it's painful, but I do have a high threshold for pain. It's more of a warning. Or sometimes on the arm, if I'm just lying on the couch ignoring him.

I know what it feels like to be ignored.

But just like me, and just like cats kept in cages, and just like dogs kept on chains, Rufus is a whole, entire, living being. He has a personality. He has desires. He has needs. 

He prefers to be watched at mealtimes. He loves falling asleep in my armpit. He adores chicken liver so much that once I forgot some on the counter and he ate a quarter kilo in one go, even though he'd already had his meal. He doesn't scare or startle easily. He always wants belly rubs and will never do the hind-leg-kick so many cats do when they ask for belly rubs. He likes his ears to be petted. He goes crazy for catnip. Sometimes if I'm eating something meaty for dinner he wants to get his face all up in it, just like that steak restaurant roof, and it's really hard to convince him to leave it alone. His ginger spots on his nose look like a funny moustache. His white-tipped ears look tie-dyed. He loves climbing and jumps like a gazelle. He truly enjoys it when I sing him lullabies.

And sometimes, he gets moody.

And sometimes, I get moody.

I wonder if Rufus ever has nightmares about being returned to The Cats' Cradle once again? I had to board him one weekend and chose the poshest place I could find. They had a camera in his cubby and every time I checked on him he was curled up in his bed, doing nothing. When I returned, they asked me to come get him out of the cubby because he wouldn't come out for them.

When I came into the room and said his name, he heard my voice and his eyes went as big as Baby Yoda's. He poured himself into the cat carrier like liquid, ready to go home.

Home. Forever. Forever home.

*

So to answer your question, "What [was Rufus] trying to tell us? What can we do to help Jenson?"

I think Rufus was trying to tell you, I'm hurt. I don't understand why, or how to get better. What I really need is someone to be patient with me, and focus on me, and make me feel safe. Someone to treat me not as an accessory, but an actual living individual.

I think to help Jenson, you need someone who will give him those same things. Someone who understands a thing or two about trauma. Someone patient. Someone forever.

*

Dear Shangning, thank you for helping Rufus and me find one another.

Dear Jenson, so many of us know what it's like to feel so strongly that you hurt people. But there's someone out there for whom you aren't too much. I pray they find you soon.

Love,

Someone who was also too much.

*********************************

Rufus and me the day we first met, heading home from The Cat's Cradle:

The first time Rufus slept on my lap:

Rufus sleeping in my armpit:

Cuddling at home:

Would you get a load of this cuteness?

A couple of clowning lovebirds:

After I brought him home from the boarding place, he fell asleep holding onto me:

你為什麼要離開台灣？

Content Warning: discussion of mental health, emotional health, suicide and sexual abuse

1991:

I am in fourth grade. I still believe in prayer. I still believe in magic. I read a magazine that says girls should write a list of the things they wish for in a boyfriend. I make my list. I believe it is magic. I pray.

1992.05: 

I graduate fourth grade. I have been at the school for four years. It is the longest I have stayed in one place all my life. For the rest of my life, I will never stay anywhere longer than three years. Not until I move to Taiwan.

2002.08:

I get married. I'm too young. I get married because he wants to get married. If I say no, are we not allowed to be in love anymore? I know I'm not ready, but I love him. I want to give him what he wants. We've been together two years, and we've always said we would get married someday eventually. This is what people in love do, right?

2004.08: 

I get divorced. 

2009: 

A man I've never met moves to Korea. His name is Matt. He lands in a work culture that almost forces you to become an alcoholic. He becomes an alcoholic. He is still a good man, and smart. After nine months, he leaves. I know nothing about this at this time.

2011.05: 

I finally graduate university with a bachelor's degree. It's been a rocky life, never staying in one place, and I still haven't gotten over that marriage. It feels like I've finally won something. I stayed at that university for three years, and that's the longest I've stayed anywhere. Maybe I'm a grownup now.

2011.07-08:

I go to Taiwan, to a city in the south called Pingtung. I don't have any experience with East Asian cultures. My only knowledge of them is limited to the white boys in school who never fit in, and talked about Japan and China as the perfect place for them to go, be nerdy, and find girlfriends. I hate that kind of talk, so it made me uninterested in East Asia. But my friend told me about a scholarship program to study in Taiwan, and I applied. I got the scholarship. I have no reason not to go. I've traveled ten countries by now, but they've all been in Europe or North/Central America. Why not? I fall accidentally in love with the country. I want to stay. But I'm now in a long term relationship again. It's rocky but I believe it's worth fighting for. We've been together two years, and I believe we could go the distance if we work on it. I go back to the US, and move into his house in Tucson.

2013.05:

Only one of us is working on the relationship, and it isn't my partner. On mother's day, always a difficult day for me, I am heartbroken after another failed attempt to work on things. I am wandering the streets at dark, deciding which car to throw myself in front of. The fact that I have my dog with me stops me. I go home. Home? To his house with my things inside where I no longer feel safe. I put my poetry books and my dog in the car and drive two days from Tucson to my father's house in Arkansas without calling him in advance. I wouldn't want him to worry. I pull up in his driveway at midnight and ask, "Can I stay here for a while?" For two weeks I eat soup or nothing. I lose twenty pounds in those two weeks. I lose a lot, actually. My partner is still trying to get me to kill myself from afar. It's really hard not to give in.

2013.06: 

The man I haven't met, the man called Matt, moves to a town in southern Taiwan. The town is called Pingtung. He starts working. The drinking culture there isn't nearly as bad as Korea, but it's still there. He quickly becomes a darling of the scene. He is still able to hold down his job, and his students and their parents love him. I still know nothing about him.

2013.07:

I go back to Tucson. My partner is not in the house. He is currently on deployment somewhere beautiful, like Portugal or southern Italy. How he must be suffering, I feel, as I sort through the belongings he threw into a giant mess. I try to sell them but he's still harassing me. He wants me out faster than I can possibly manage to pack up my life. I have to abandon most of it. But in the packing, I go through my journals. They go back more than thirteen years. I find a pattern in my relationships. The two four-year relationships as well as other flings of different lengths. Any time I date a man, he is inattentive to my needs, he doesn't value me. I have to hide parts of myself. He thinks my interests are silly. Most notably, not a one of them can hold their liquor. I am grateful for this opportunity to see so clearly, so objectively, cycles in my life. I feel certain that vision this clear is rare. I promise myself not to forget. I swear on my own heart that this will not happen again.

2013.08:

Talk about kicking someone while they're down, or rubbing salt in a wound. While I'm nursing my emotional health, I go on a date with someone I shouldn't have trusted. He rapes me. When I tell my ex-partner, he simply says "I hope you went to the police." It's perfect.

2013.09.06: 

It is my thirty-first birthday. My father drives me to the airport. I have two full suitcases and two big carry-ons. The woman at the ticket counter jokes, "Wow, are you moving?" Yes ma'am, I reply, I'm moving to Taiwan for two years. I'm going back to Pingtung.

2013.11:

It is Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday. I have learned that a man on an internet forum I frequent is also an American living in southern Taiwan, in my city of Pingtung. I invite him to Thanksgiving dinner. He declines. I later learn that he didn't want to meet a girl from the internet. She would probably turn out to be weird.

2014:

About a year later, I finally get this man to hang out with me. His name is Matt. He is funny. He is a truly caring friend. He remembers things I forget that I've even told him. He pays attention. I hang out with him more and more. He's positively dreamy, but it's so rare to have a friend here. It's easy to have acquaintances, but rare to find someone with whom you share a first language and cultural experience. Then once you find that, do you even get along? We get along. He's perfectly sweet. I hope he finds a good girlfriend. He deserves one.

2015.08:

I've always had community in the US. No, communities. Many different groups of friends, some overlapping, that I can interact with as often as I like. Most of my friends are cuddlers. We have slumber parties. I miss human contact. I convince Matt to become a cuddling friend. But it turns out, we've both always been interested in trying something more than just friendship with one another. Physical closeness leads to more physical closeness. Before I know it, we're being physically close pretty often. But my heart is still broken. I'm not looking for love. I know he is, and I don't want to get in the way of that for him. I don't want to change him, either, but he spontaneously stops smoking cigarettes. I tell him I love him, but I'm not in love with him. He tells me in all things, I'm the boss. He'll never push me. I believe him. I trust him.

2015.10:

I want to share my favorite magical place with this special friend of mine. I convince him to spend a weekend on a nearby mountain with me. It's an aboriginal area, and the woman who I call doesn't have any vacancies in her room. But she hears my accent on the phone and asks if I'm foreign. When I tell her I am, she offers her ancestral home for me and my "boyfriend" (her word not mine) to stay in. When we go there, it's amazing. Slate house, porch on the roof, all windows open and we sleep next to one on a slab, listening to running water and chirping frogs. The name of the mountain is WuTai, meaning fog platform. We sit on the roof porch and watch the sun set and the fog platform roll in beneath us. We sleep above the clouds. We make love on our slab next to the open window while the frogs and falling water sing to us. Damn, I think. I'm in love with this bastard. I'm done for. There's no going back.

2016.02.25:

Matt and a friend go out drinking. Matt, as he often does, has far too much. He gets blackout drunk. How did he end up on a naval base? Was their perimeter not secure and he just found a back way in? Did he actually go through the front gate and no one cared to stop him? We may never know. But he is arrested for drunk driving on the military base. He is taken to court, where he is counseled to plead guilty. The judge asks if he wants to remain in Taiwan, and he says yes, more than anything, he loves Taiwan. It's true, we both do at this point. We don't want to go back to the USA. The judge accepts his guilty plea and charges him a fine for drunk driving and espionage. The fee is equivalent to about $3,000USD. He pays.

2016:

He never pushes me. He never asks for more than I have to give at any time. He never does anything without my consent. He listens, pays attention, and remembers. I don't have to hide any parts of myself. He loves my ugliness, my brokenness, my scars. He accepts me and celebrates me as I am. I allow myself to be vulnerable with him, and I've never felt more safe.

When I am depressed, he instinctively knows exactly what to do. I've always had to hide my clinical depression from my past partners. They either didn't care or actively said they didn't like it. But this man knows what to do. He knows if I need to be left alone, he knows if I need cuddles, he knows if I need pillows and blankets and children's movies. One night, before we move in together, I send him a message. I feel silly. I've been too depressed to take a shower and I'm starting to smell bad. He comes over. He takes off his clothes but keeps his underwear on. He tells me he doesn't want this to feel sexual. He carries me to the bathroom and puts me on a stool in the shower. He washes my hair for me and scrubs my skin. Another night my anxiety is so bad I'm trapped on the couch. I cannot get to bed to go to sleep. It's getting late. Again I send him a message. Again he comes over and saves the day.

At some point, I have a talk with Matt about his drinking. I've never been so cared for, so respected in any relationship. Truly everything is perfect except this. I tell him about the journals and what I promised myself. He promises, too. He promises to cut back. He drinks only at home. No more driving anymore. He buys a certain amount, and doesn't drink more than that. But the amounts he brings home get bigger. But he keeps his word.

2017.02.12:

We go out with some friends. We ride together on his ride to get there, so he can't get too drunk to get us home. The first drink he orders is a bathtub of a margarita with two beers turned upside down in it. He says this way, he only needs to buy one drink for the night. Then he buys a second drink. I ask him to stop. He starts drinking water. But when we go to the next bar, I can see his eyes getting glassy. He orders a rum and coke. Then a second. He talks with the bartender about how much rum goes in, and it's fully three quarters of the glass. I can see the Matt I know has gone away from behind those glassy eyes. It is another man who picks up that drink and puts it to his lips. As I see him do it, I know that I am less important than a glass of rum and coke. I know he is already blackout drunk. I call a cab and take him home. On the drive he becomes less and less lucid. By the time we arrive I'm barely able to get him into our home. I get him undressed and in the shower with the water running. I bring him water. He starts to throw up. I'm dying from the heart out. I'm trying to tend to him without shattering into a million pieces. I go to the kitchen to get more water and when I come back, he's climbed out of the bathroom and into the hallway where he's thrown up a lake. I start hysterically sobbing and wailing. I lock myself in the bedroom. I sleep until it's time to go to work.

2017.02.13:

When I leave the bedroom to go to work, I find a puddle of vomit-infused water in the floor. I have to put plastic bags over my feet so I can walk through it to get to the door. I realize my relationship is over. I made a promise to myself that I intend to keep. We spend the week separated. We live in the same apartment but sleep in different rooms. I'm trying to fight for us to stay friends. He has quit drinking for good. He has started exercising. But he says it will hurt him too much to stay friends. The worst is happening and I can't stop it.

2017.02.18:

Matt brings home a cigar - one of our favorite pastimes is to sit on our 5th-floor balcony together with no electronics and share a cigar and conversation in the breeze. Over the course of this conversation, we realize we both want to continue fighting for this relationship, the best either of us have ever had. We've always been good at communication and working together. He asks me if I remember him giving up cigarettes shortly after we started dating. I do, he quit cold turkey. He tells me, the most difficult part of change for him is to commit to the decision. Once he's done that, he says, it's finished. I believe him, but I'm scared to trust him. We decide to work together to save it. He lets me set the pace. He never tries to rush things. We slowly move forward, then back into the same bedroom. We continue to have weekend adventures all over Taiwan. We spoil one another on each other's birthdays. He writes me poetry and loves everything I cook. When we talk about the future, our plans always include one another. There is no future without him. My home is where his heart is.

2017.04.27:

A Taiwanese author named Lin YiHan kills herself. She had recently published a story about a girl who is raped and abused by her teacher. People speculated that it was auto-biographical although she denied it.

2017.05.12:

A new law is passed in Taiwan requiring background checks for teachers. People hope it will keep children safe from predators, and so do Matt and I. When our bosses ask for our information to do background checks, we happily provide it. No one should have to fear abuse from their superiors, and no children should go through what the protagonist in Lin's novel did.

2018.05.12:

Matt and I board a plane together. We've taken many short trips but this will be our first long journey. We're going first to visit his family so I can meet everyone, then to mine so they can meet him. I will be able to stay longer in the USA than Matt can, and I look forward to spending time with my father.

2018.05.27:

Matt flies home. His journey is just awful. One flight is fourteen hours and the woman behind him is digging her feet into his chair, hitting an area where he has a surgical wound we've been tending for ages. Upon his exhausted arrival, he learns from his boss that his work permit has been revoked. His background check turned up the DUI. It doesn't matter that he paid his fine. It doesn't matter that he's been sober for a year and a half. The permit has been revoked. I am in denial. He believes he will have to leave Taiwan, but I beg him to fight it. He never hurt any children. His students and their parents love him. His bosses make every call possible.

2018.06.04:

I am on a road-trip around my part of the USA. It is about 9PM and I still have about 5 hours drive left before I get to my destination. I get a message from Matt that he is being deported. There is never a moment where I consider staying in Taiwan. My home is where his heart is. They aren't deporting one man, they're deporting us both, because I cannot stay without him. I pull into a roadside strip motel because I don't trust myself to keep driving. When I explain my situation at the front desk, they give me rum. I drink it and go to my room to shower and cry.

2018.06.06:

Matt checks the mail and finds a letter from the government. The letter says he must leave Taiwan. The deportation date is June 5th. Yes, you read that right. The official letter arrived on the 6th and said he had to leave the country on the 5th. He calls the office. He tells them his girlfriend will return to Taiwan on the 18th. Could he please stay until the 20th? Could he please see her for one day before he has to leave? They make him promise that he will leave the country on the 20th. When he hangs up, he sees on the bottom where he can call to appeal the decision. But everyone has been called, and at this point, we're through. We're exhausted. They win. We'll leave.

The Future:

I will go back to work in Taiwan. I will probably work until late August, early September. Early September is when I first moved to Taiwan in 2013. That means I've lived there for five years, after my original plan was for just two years. I fell in love with the land, the mountains, the beaches, the plains. I fell in love with the people, the families, the friends, the shopkeepers. I fell in love with the food, the god parades, the night markets. It's the longest I've ever stayed in one place my entire life. I wanted to keep staying.

I don't know where we go next. But we will go there together. This is the man I wrote about in my notebook in fourth grade, the last time I ever stayed somewhere more than three years. He is my spell, he is my prayer, he is where my heart is. I will follow him to any country. I will follow him to the moon.

Day 5/30: What is here

Here is a queen-
sized mattress floating in a still ocean,
dozens of pillows,
just enough breeze.

Here is the way a ray
of sunlight falls across
a purple orchid growing outdoors
beside the creek
in southern Taiwan.

Here is the sound
of piano coasting down
from some window the next
building over in the late
afternoon.

Here is how I feel:
with my head on his shoulder,
with my lips on his cheek,
with his arms around me,
when I ride, arms flung wide,
drinking in joy on the back
of his motorbike.

19/30: write about the weather, but not really

There are rains here in Taiwan like I'd never seen.
Go to bed, rain.  Wake up, rain.  In between?
Rain.  And I love it.  Love it all over
everything, all inside everything, everywhere I go
it goes with me, everywhere I look it's all I see,
it gets in my food, in my drink, in my eyes, down
my ears and into my brain.  I wear it.  I breathe it.
I sleep with it and arise into it.  It bathes me
and my world; it soothes, it nourishes, sings, it


There are winds that blow on the southernmost tip
like I've never felt.  Just try camping.  The winds
will shudder the tent you'll feel shaking, sleep stirring,
rise moving, and in between, dancing.  Just listen
how the ocean sings with it, too, take naps on the beach
and ignore the stinging sand, take a jar of sand home
like setting it on the shelf could keep the wind with you,
like you feel your hair blowing when you look upon it,
and you feel how it felt on your skin, you can feel


And now here I am
in the town where I live
and his wind and his rain
have gone across the sea.
Left me with all this
fucking
sunshine.
Left me

18/30 - A Gram of &s

An eleven line form whereby the theme/title of the piece, its letters are used to make new words that end each line.  Get help finding your words here.  No fair changing words - adding "s" or "ed" or any of that nonsense.

Infatuation:
What it boils down to is I think it would be fun
if we spent a fortnight, just you, me, a futon,
and a kitchen full of food.  We fuck like Titan
gods, all thunder and smolder, like we might attain
some immortality from this electrified union.
After this, after us, after you I find myself unfit
for any others.  I want to curl myself into
the concave of your body like some infant,
like your skin could become my new outfit.
I think of your mouth and feel hungry and faint,
missing the way it makes me come like a fountain.

11/30: Another year, another ghost line from Morgan Coleman

Whole heart

-edly.  No half measures.  No

holding back, nothing barred.

Altogether.  Completely.  Not

without fear, but without letting

fear win.  As though I’ve been doing it

my whole life already.  Like a rock star.

Like a natural.  Like my life depended

on it.  Because my life may depend on it.

Because I don’t know how

to do shit halfway.  Because you

are worth everything I’ve got I will start

as I mean to go on.  Because I mean

to go on.  Because within

this spark I have found

my whole self.

Shout out and promo

I'm not anything even remotely approaching a big deal, so when I have supporters, they mean a lot to me.  I think a lot about Renee Dillon, who I met at a camp we used to go to, who says the sweetest things and always buys my books.  I think about Andrea Milligan who every year sings my praises and posts a link to my blog talking about how she likes what I write.  And now I have a new foreign internet friend, someone named Taidgh Lynch whose blog is Raging Planet Fire.  Stats show me where my viewers come linked from, and since Taidgh linked to me after trying his hand at a chopped-and-screwed poem, I've gotten like ten whole people come over.  That may not sound like a lot, but it means a lot to me.  So check him out.  He's poeming this month, but he also does wicked mail art now and then which anyone would be lucky to receive.  Go give him like at least ten links back, okay?  Thanks, friends.

RESUME PLAY

The challenge was to write one poem every day for the month of April.  Thirty poems in thirty days.

Before I paused, I did miss a couple days, and on the following days I would write two.

I wrote on a total of twenty-one days out of thirty.  I missed nine days.
I wrote a total of twenty-six poems out of thirty.  I missed four poems.

Does this mean I have nine days in which to write four poems?  Does it mean I have four days in which to write nine?

I'm going to write poetry for nine more days and hope that four decent pieces come out of the mix.  Cuz why not?

Today, 1 May, day one of nine, is from prompt #1 here:

I believe in oak,
spiral leaves with lobbed margins,
serrated leaves with smooth margins,
flowers called catkins that give birth to acorns,
bitter fruit in tiny cups.
I believe in holding on to dead leaves
until spring gives you new ones.
I believe in strength and resistance
and making liquids more precious
just by holding them a while.  I believe

in pine, in fire and resin, in needles
and cones, in growing fast
and dense; I believe in hickory,
in being native to the whole world
and being prized world-wide, in giving
foundations to stand upon and flavor
to your food.  I believe in pecan.

I believe ash can betray you.
I believe teak should never be broken.
I believe mahogany should be treasured
and respected, not just for its strength, not just
for the beauty of its song.  I believe cedar
is a word you can smell when you hear it,
I believe maple is a word you can taste
when you hear it, I believe sawdust
is sacred.  I believe the sound
of a bandsaw is a fine violin, a nailgun
is a snare drum, and sandpaper
sounds finer than the ocean at night.
I believe in carpentry.  I believe

it is possible to build a whole house
from nothing, to build a whole home
from a house, to build a whole family
from a home, I believe dovetailing makes
the strongest connections, and there
are also joints named knee joints,
lap joints, and my father had knees
and a lap and my father knew how
to build a house and the value of each
type of wood and my father was sacred
as sawdust and strong as hickory
or oak; I believe father is a word
you can feel when you hear it.

4/30: In which the poet finally stops talking about herself

For the Workshop Facilitator Who Said of My Poem,
"You Don't Really Show Us the Other Person. I Mean,
Why is it that You Like Him?"

Because those girls who like
to date assholes
can have them.
Because my man's arms
are two constricting snakes
and I've never cared
for breathing anyway.
Because my head
on his shoulder becomes
a raindrop on a cloud,
a sigh
on a breeze,
an eyelash on a wish.
Because when he says
my name in that soft way
I unlearn all other words.
Because he tells me my hips
are pretty and he likes
all my tattoos. Because
he says waking up together
is Christmas morning
and he can't believe
this present
is for him.

2.1/30: Chayote

today,
i cooked
chayote.

chayote
is magic.
it's a gourd,

cousin
to squash
and melon.

it's hard
when you cut it
and then

becomes soft
like potato
when cooked.

it feels
like honeydew
between your teeth

and tastes
like the sweetest
zucchini.

so sweet
i thought
about

the first
time
i kissed you,

when you stood
there
by my door, ready

to leave
but i
said, "wait

..."
and you did.
so i planted

the most tidy
of kisses
there, on the apple

of your cheek.
chayote is like
apple, too,

anyway,
i just
wanted

to tell you
about
my day.

day 7 of 30

Today ends a week of depressing poems. Someone posted (on facebook) a "Pay it Forward" for creative people - you reply to their status and they will give you something handmade, and you then must do the same for five others. I'm giving poems.

For Erica:
------------
Your mother may have told you tales
of hospitals, painful labor until dawn,
your brand-new foot slathered in black ink,
your grandmother cutting the cord.
These are all lies, of course,
and some part of you knows it. That part
remembers the dark cave wall, the breath
of the one who painted you there, remembers
the thousands of years spent waiting
until the day the woman who would become
your mother arrived and saw your image,
ancient and wild, there on the cold stone,
and she stood there, breathless, awe-struck,
and decided she had to have you. And so,
she gathered wood, lit a fire beneath you
and sang to you every day
for a full cycle of the moon until
you fell off the wall, crying with joy,
into her arms.

One day your son will come to you. He will
inform you in his infinite innocent wisdom
that he knows the stork is a lie.
When you look at him quizzically
and he will state with all the sureness of a prophet
that he knows his father brought him to you,
a giant swollen seed wrapped in butcher paper
and sheet music and together you sprouted him
in rich dark soil until he grew big enough
to love you back. You will not correct him.
You will look at him, silent and stoic and finally
you will nod, and say, "That is the way
of our people."

Your name has come to put me in mind
of a dot on a map, the name of a place
I haven't been in years.

There are towns I've lived in and loved
but left behind, for whatever reason.
I return, months later, and names of streets
have changed; I don't remember the shortcuts;
my favorite spots have become hard to find.

Once, I built a nice warm home
on your shoulder. I went to church
in the crook of your neck, my favorite dive bar
a dimly lit joint on your upper thigh. Live music
all the time and the best drinks in town.
But I've been away for some months now and wonder:
When I go back to visit, will I remember
the shortcuts? The backroads? The best hill
to ride my bike down? Will I find it only
to feel the wind in my face just once, strong and wild,
right before I have to leave?

What I miss

When I first get back to my own home,
I will climb into my bed, big as the ocean
and begin to nap. I will sleep
until I cannot force myself to sleep any more
and apologize to no one. My dog will sleep
right there on the bed with me and we will both
sleep the best we have in months.

My second day back in my own home
I will wake up and take a shower and I will not
put on a stitch of clothing. I will make calls,
business calls, get the land line turned on,
get internet in the house again, get the bills
sent back to my own address instead of my fathers,
turn on my netflix account. I will then
watch at least two movies and call for a pizza.
I will tape the money to the door with a note:
"Set the pizza down. Knock. Go back to your car.
Today I cannot be convinced to put on clothes."

My third day back in my own home, I believe,
I will love myself several times in a row,
as frequently as I please, and I will be
loud about it. No one will complain.
When I feel the need to do something
that some might consider rude, like burp
or fart, I shall also do that just as loud
as I please. There's a chance my dog
might look at me funny, but lord knows
he does it too. I will leave my dishes
in the sink and I will lay in the floor
and I will listen to loud music and I will
still be naked by the way and I will cook
naked too and watch movies naked and then

I will put on some clothes and invite over
everyone I have ever loved and throw every pillow
I own into a pile in the floor and say,
Friends, here is where we cuddle. I missed you.
And it will be almost as if I had never left
except there will be Mexican artwork on the walls.

24/30, last minute draft

Here's the thing of it. I don't know how to write a poem about you
without saying Every time I tell you that I love you it's a lie.
Man nor god never invented any word to tell you what I feel and love
feels so cheap it's a curse word in four letters. I want to say:
I remember every day the time we turned that corner and saw
four women praying to end abortion and I said Girl just look down
and we turned in to the lot and walked inside, hand in hand. That's
closer to the kind of love I want to convey I want to say Sister,
remember that time we got in the car and we drove all day to Kentucky
and whether we went so you could see that boy or so I could forget one
doesn't matter anymore all that matters is stopping in Loretta Lynn's
Country Kitchen on the way back for photos. But I'm getting colder.
I try: I'm glad your brilliant academic career fell flat on its face
so I can still see you even if it's only once a month and we can sit
in the sunshine and talk about our lives like that's actually
what we're talking about instead of why on earth they say the Greek
had four words for love and the Eskimos have twenty or so
and I don't have one that can tell you what I mean. Getting warmer.
If I say the word Friend it's a sorry excuse. If I say soulmate it's
trite, overused and Best Friend fits better on a keychain anyway
I'd tattoo you on my heart but no one would be able to see it it's
important to me that everyone see it so I say: No one has ever
made me feel so completely KNOWN I say: Comrades, Cohorts, Compadres,
say: the best day of my life was that day when I called you,
crying on campus because I was afraid you were dead already and you
answered and you cried right back and you'll always be the strongest
woman I've ever known. Say: I want to be you when I grow up, say:
I know you knew all of this before I even wrote it, didn't you?
Say I love you isn't strong enough but I love you anyway.

30/30 challenge, day 2: astronomy class invades my poetry

You awake every day to a drum,
the persistent pounding
of so many tiny planets on your pillow,
their determined orbits blocked
until you lift your proud, growling head
and they sigh with relief, once again able
to complete their circular devotions.

You tug cobweb nebulas out of your locks,
rub protostars from the corners of your eyes,
and later, as you slip into an elevator at
the very last moment, nearly lose two satellites
to the closing doors.

So you see I can't help it if I find my thoughts
revolving around you. Give me a name
befitting a moon. Tell me again,
Apollo, what my eyes remind you of.
Tell me once more, sweet Ra, about clouds
of carbon atoms in space, the brilliance of
supernovae exploding, the oceans that cover
that tiny third planet which has always
been your favorite.

April 30/30 Challenge: Day 1

There is another world in which,
when he told you he wanted you
all to himself, you (so like the night sky)
threw back your head and laughed an
aurora borealis in his face. You didn't mean
to be rude. When you came to me later,
(you, so like the ocean, making waves
all through my house) and told me about it,

we marveled at the impossibility of you
belonging to one person as we pictured the poor boy
standing on the beach trying frantically to scoop
all of its sand into his arms. Then we kissed,
soft like breezing, and you tied one of your shells
into my hair. And dusk fell. And the tide came in.

Ode to the Cute Girl at Table 21

O Darling Cutie seated at two-one,
the things we've done already in my mind
would make a red man blush, would make a nun
recite ten rosaries for all mankind.
The way you order your beef cooked mid-rare
has made me sure that we were meant to be
in love and build a life and every day
we spent would be increasingly more fair.
You look up from your plate and right at me,
and in this kitchen I feel myself sway.

But I have seen you 'round here for some time
and one would think that if I meant to kiss
your face, I would by now have made you mine,
and we would know the flavor of our bliss.
Your server asked me if we have steak sauce
and all that I can do is softly pray
your table-mates and not you are the ones
whose palates suffer incalculable loss,
and even you must feel a bit dismayed
to see them sauce their steaks ordered well-done.

Your dainty features, your exquisite smile,
your shining eyes, your lilting fairy laugh,
the way your head is tilted to one side,
the way your neck reminds me of giraffes...
Your personality must attract bees!
Although my feelings may, to you, seem queer,
and though you may not want me for a spouse,
my darling, I proclaim the facts are these:
that you could have the fame and the career
and I would stay at home to keep your house.

I want to write a love poem every day this week.

I met you in a room with red walls, I remember
that much, couldn't say what building on
the campus it was but I remember your smile
against those red walls like it was already

tattooed on my breast. I fell in love with you
that day and have again every day since in the
nearly eight years it's been. Fate is called
fickle but I think she's more constant
than she's given credit for being. Because

in those eight years how many days
have I woken wishing I was with you, kissing
the place on your breast where perhaps my
smile might be tattooed? The answer is Yes,

the answer is Every One, the answer is Someday,
Fate will decide I'm ready for all of you and
you're ready for all of me and we'll build
a home in Costa Rica or perhaps India where

people come to be fed and hugged and read to
in any language, where love songs will fly
through the air and cannot be dodged, where
our arms will never untwine, and every wall
will be painted scarlet and smeared with our smiles.

A Letter to Lee Pace

Dear Mr. Pace:

I won't want a big wedding. I'd much rather it be small - just a few close family members, just a few close friends. I don't intend to wear white because I think a bride should have to earn that honor. I just went to a wedding where the bride DID earn it and still wore cream. I will want to look stunningly beautiful for you, but I won't sport a color that implies virginity.

I do want to get married near water. Whether it's a lake, an ocean, a river - doesn't matter. I have a favorite body of water or two in mind but am open to suggestions. In fact, you should know that I'm a compromiser on most things - this should make our marriage go smoothly because you seem like a pretty easy-going dude yourself.

It's important to me that you know I don't want to marry you because you're some famous actor and I want your money. So, to that end, I think we should keep a joint checking account and each put equal amounts per month to pay the rent and utilities. After that we can each have our own separate accounts going - your money will be yours and mine will be mine, period. I'm willing to sign on this in a prenup.

I never wanted to have children until I fell in love with your eyebrows. This has now become a negotiable issue. If you want them, we'll talk, if not, I'll just go back to plan A.

I won't want to follow you to every shooting location because I respect that your job is just that - YOUR job. However, please understand that if you ever wind up in a movie like The Fall ever again, and they're shooting in twenty nine different countries (I don't know that I could even list twenty nine countries off the top of my head!) I will probably be trying to follow you around. This will not be to stalk you nearly as much as it will be to capitalize upon travel opportunities.

I think we should discuss whether we want an open or a closed relationship and upon what terms. Monogamy has always been a very difficult thing for me - but again, then I fell in love with those eyebrows and now a few things have become negotiable.

You should know I'm a poet. This means that you will be getting ready to leave the house one day and find a poem in your pocket. Then you will find a poem stuck to your windshield another day. Then perhaps on a birthday or anniversary, when you were expecting a fancy shmancy present, you'll instead get another poem because I'm a poet and I'm broke. This also means that if you ever do me wrong... well, there will be poems. The thing of it is, though, I don't completely suck. I'm not E.E.Cummings or Nikki Giovanni by any stretch of any imagination, but at least you won't be disgusted by the poems and lose all respect for me.

You should also know that I'm a little needy. I'll leave all these poems, and I'll see little things that remind me of you and either buy them or steal them... and I'll expect tokens of affection in kind. They don't have to be the same as mine, but they should be nearly as frequent or I'll start to doubt your love for me. And despite this need, I'm not big on P.D.A.s You can have your arm around me, but I won't want to be kissed in public. That's just for us, just in private, not for the world. Being photographed when we go out will take some getting used to for me, as I don't enjoy it at all. But then you have those eyebrows, so I'll see what I can do.

I'll await your reply,
Ginna Funk Wallace

P.S. I love my name and intend to keep it. Our beautiful-eyebrowed children can use yours if you like.

P.P.S. Did I mention I have a culinary degree? You can expect to reap the rewards of that regularly.

P.P.P.S. Parents? LOVE me.

Poetry Month - Yesterday's Poem

Didn't get home until nearly two last night, and I was a little marinated. Sorry. Here's the poem. Oops, I mean draft. Have I said draft ten thousand times this month yet?





Final victory: Ninth victory:
I thought the time might be right.
I laid down on the ground, on his level,
to make of myself less a threat,
and sure enough, gods be praised,
he began to climb his awkward mangy body
all over my face, giving kisses out wildly;
it was then I was allowed to pet him.

Eighth victory:
As I was walking away, him chasing behind,
tail wagging, he jumped up and placed
both paws on my leg and pushed.
He initiated contact, you see.

Seventh victory:
While he was eating out of my hand,
I allowed my thumb to carefully, slowly
graze the side of his puppy face and he
pretended not to notice.

Sixth victory:
One afternoon after the meal and I
was walking back to my door,
he actually followed me, chased
me even, tail wagging.

Fifth victory:
The day I tried holding food in my hand
and he cautiously ate out of it before
running back into the alley.

Fourth victory:
When my car pulled up, his tiny matted tail,
previously perma-tucked, popped up and
even wagged.

Third victory:
When I threw the food closer and closer,
he came closer and closer to get it,
even if he snapped at my hand when it was
too near for comfort.

Second victory:
He came back
every single day
at exactly three forty
when I got home from work.

First victory:
He chose
the alley alongside
my house.