The Sun Rises at 40

I think I get it now. I think I finally get what they mean when they say that life begins at 40. As a newbie forty-something, I have found myself revisiting life's bigger questions and callings. Like a planet on its course, I have come to the question about my purpose, about what lights up my heart and fills me with joy.  Having turned 40 a year and a half ago, I find myself face-to-face with the very questions that confronted me half of my lifetime ago.

And while I do not think that life actually begins at forty, I have come to see my turning forty as the sunrise in my life. Which is to say, I am going to a new vision of life for myself. The sunlight is only just beginning to come through, so I am seeing an urgency of heart more than a clear picture. I am remembering the things that matter most to me. I am remembering the kind of work that revs me up. And in this remembering, the picture of where I come from blurs with the picture of where I am going.

Poem 8/30: Your Are Not Five or Fifteen

To be a dog, or a grown up. Or to be

a penguin. Aiden, who is now five,

has this power. To dive in to 

an imagining so real, he becomes

the thing. He is angry at his mother

when he is forced to wear underpants.

Penguins don't wear underpants, Mama.

I told you, I am a penguin today.

He is your nephew, your heart, your moon.

And you are not five or fifteen. You are

not even twenty five, not by miles.

Now, you must dive in. 

To be forty one.

To be a woman, brown woman in

this land uncertain about its new skin.

Brown woman in this world 

the old man is unprepared to see.

What is the power that you hold 

in this new brown world?

Is it your sex? Is it your skin?  

Imagine a Sunday at its best. All

sunshine and blossoms. Imagine

all voices raised, all sights on high. 

Now imagine the pulsing. Your heart. 

Your heart.

7/30: Mama Warned You About Days Like This

You have grown weary of the words,

always the words. So many words, always

talking, always talking. Your mama warned

you about days like this, days when your 

quick with and piercing words would crush.

Only, she never told you they would crush

your own self. Your own heart. Your weary,

wordy heart. You have said enough. Too much.

You were weak. Over here, they call it 

vulnerable. Your heart calls it weak, your

heart knows you went too far. You

showed them where they can hurt you,

you let them in. You told them. Silly

girl, you said here, right here, come 

and touch me right here.  And now 

there is no phone, the internet is down, 

they are are nowhere to be found and 

all you have left is a sorry ditch 

you cannot talk your way out of.

April 6 Poem: How Things Work (6/30)

My father liked to point out

the mechanics of things.

On planes, we would always sit 

near the wings so we could watch

as the pilot maneuvered the

flaps, opening wide to create 

resistance the shutting them tight

for a smooth glide. In airports as

planes landed, we looked out

for the landing gear - those wheels

the pilot released just as the plane 

touched down.  When I was 

learning how to drive, he showed

me the car engine, made me see

how it moved as he hit the gas or 

shifted gears. He  made me 

change a tire, taught

me how to check the oil. 

The heart is an engine and a man is 

an engine and a father is an 

engine. My father showed me 

the mechanics of love. Most nights

till I was twelve, he would tuck

me and my sister in bed,

brush our hair out of our eyes,

kiss us on our foreheads.

I learned what tenderness 

looked like on the face of man

when my father kissed me

goodnight. And later, much 

later, my father taught me

forgiveness. When I broke his

heart, with my angst and my 

words. When he broke my

heart with his struggles

and failings. The heart,

the eyes, the tender eyes,

the forehead kisses. My father

taught me the mechanics of

love. He took me under the hood

so I would know. So I could see.

April 5 Poem: When I Am French (5/30)

Sometimes I imagine I am French.

I picture myself in an a pied-a-tere

overlooking le jardin, sipping cafe au lait.

My voice lowers an octave, suddenly

sophisticated, spoken from luscious lips

that pucker and pout. I have a mole

on my face, a beautiful imperfection

somewhere close to my left eye. 

My brows, always perfect, arch with

more conviction and my deep brown

eyes will be equal parts sadness and sass.

I am always gliding, when I am French 

I gain grace and gait. Accordion 

music trails wherever I go.

April 4 Poem: The Dance of the Left-Right Sway (4/30)

And each city is a flash,
each citizen a speck
on this train ride between
townships. Strangers sharing
this car, this air, this free wifi,
this conductor, this suspension
between to and from. Behind,
conversations of apparent
importance, spoken on a 
Blackberry with urgency.
"Family emergency... No,
there will be no way to reach
me at the hospital... Yes,
I promise to be on email 
as much as I can..." then
a long silence, not even a sigh.
Across me, a watermelon 
coat outshone by a smile, 
it must be love, a new love
she cannot contain.
She stares out the window,
as if to make a wish and 
then, she is suddenly sad..
Beside me, a logbook,
an iPad, a calendar and
a calculator. It is tax season
in the East Coast and he
is both King and drone,
he leaves his armaments
only once and returns with
his third coffee. 

And the speed of the 
journey is swaddled in
the softest sunlight,
camouflaged by the
left-right sway. And the man 
with the clicker is always
the boss. And the suit
who steps out to take
a call means business,
so does the pearl-wearing
hair flipper he is here with.
The conservative in the
seat next to me reads about
the missionary position, and
the hipster across from him 
is bored. And the argyle 
sweater in the middle is
pensive and the watermelon
coat is smiling again.
And each city is still 
a flash, and each citizen
is less of a speck in the 
sway and the rock from 
New York to Boston today. 

April 3 Poem: When the Body is Angry (3/30)

In my case, it is the belly.
Always. As if my every hope
and fear is held there. As if 
my every nerve winds around
there. It will not be ignored,
cannot be ignored. But sometimes
it is the shoulder. As if all that
I bear leans there. As if all my
struggles wrestle there. 

In my case, it is also the fist,
the lashing tongue, the 
uncontrollable stomp. 
Once it was deeper inside, the
anger. In this case, it was
vindictive. It was plotting.
It was punishing. It required
surgeons and treatments,
It was scarring, irreversible.

When the body is angry, you listen. 
You must listen. Listen 
for the tiny creaks, listen 
for the whispered moans, listen 
for the happy humming, listen
for the fracture, listen
for the break, listen
for the fissure, listen
for the rebellion. Listen
when the clots form. Listen
when the cells conspire. Listen.
When the body is angry, listen.
You must listen.