Trifecta
My first son
come to me via e-mail. Out of the blue, I got a short message from a Guatemalan orphanage with a photo attached. “Here is a baby boy for you to consider.” (Consider him my life.) Meanwhile, my body changed. It morphed into mom-ness and then: two pink lines on the white stick and a second son was born from my body. Finally, a girl child came fully-formed, sweet faced, already wearing glasses. So here I am: adoptive mom biological mom step mom. What did I do to deserve so much? Nothing. It is how life’s cards were dealt, leaving me a winner. Maternally. Eternally. |
Poem for Sylvia Plath
With a remorseless snake
wrapped around your throat you poured their milk and penned the note. Snug in their beds you barred the door opened the oven and sank to the floor. You couldn't take the kitchen's heat, so you pined for the cold, one last special treat. No more meatloaf, no more cake, you really believed it was for their sake. Sad mother, I've been there alone on the farm bathing the aprons, dreaming of harm. Check Mate
The house of cards
has fallen flat it’s time to fold up our Twister mat. So gather your marbles, give the mole a final whack, you took an extra turn and you can’t give it back. You can have “toe,” but please, leave “tic” and “tac.” Player, you’re stuck on the red square and I’m finally in the black. |
Pearless
The tree came down
like the towers: It was there and then it was gone. The yard is yellower now. Tomato skins blister, the boys wear an extra slather of sunscreen and I still see an outline of where it was. Did I mention it was finally fat with fruit? Fleshy, green fetuses robbed of a ripening, nature's miscarriages, hundreds of tiny deaths. Cunt HaikuI. Unforbidden peach
turned inside-out, the soft pit in a burning bush II. It tingles and drips rips to accommodate birth and mothers the earth III. Cottage cheese, pink pea clam bake, big afro cupcake chicken skin, fish fin IV. Like a jukebox, it plays heavy metal, plays soul she rocks and she rolls. |
mother's milk is...his golden arches
his late-nite gyro his blue-plate special his foot-long hero his tuna helper his everything bagel his sushi sampler his fuzzy navel his instant oatmeal his tv dinner his hostess cupcake his chicken finger his hunk of velveeta his tapioca his organic yam his triple mocha his cherry lozenge his chamomile tea his chicken soup his vitamin c |
MiscarriageA smidge of peanut butter
never meant to stick, or a sad batch of salsa that spoiled too quick. A glob of pink taffy pulled from the womb, crumbled cookie fortune reads, “too soon, too soon.” |
Ahoy
As it appears in the Express Milwaukee poetry section, curated by Susan Firer.
As motherhood's great ball of yarn unravels,
it creates both lifeline and noose.
Fact: I was safe before the nurslings came,
but if anything happens to these milk suckers,
I'm ready for my dirt nap.
The fact is, as is,
I'm not sure I'm going to survive this.
So as of today (ahoy!)
I've joined the ranks, mamas:
I'm lacing up my combat boots.
I'm plunking a tiny hard hat atop my heart.
I'm going in.
As motherhood's great ball of yarn unravels,
it creates both lifeline and noose.
Fact: I was safe before the nurslings came,
but if anything happens to these milk suckers,
I'm ready for my dirt nap.
The fact is, as is,
I'm not sure I'm going to survive this.
So as of today (ahoy!)
I've joined the ranks, mamas:
I'm lacing up my combat boots.
I'm plunking a tiny hard hat atop my heart.
I'm going in.
Jesus, Joseph & Jerry
Mom was a nun. Not by choice, but by force. Gramma and Grandpa thought it was best. So for three years, Mom cooked and prayed and contemplated life. Then one day she found herself in a convertible VW Beetle with another nun, habits flying in the wind. They drove to the city and rented an apartment, and a week later, she met Dad.
Dad was a grad student, studying maps and wars and gods. He was Jewish, divorced and wore his curly hair afro-style. Since Mom was no longer a nun, she became a rebel.
I was conceived on New Year’s Eve. After the liquor, the priest said a prayer at midnight, and then there was me. It was 1970. Marlo Thomas said we were free to be. Dylan said the times were a-changin’. Morrison said it was The End. So naturally, I was raised “nothing” – not Jewish or Catholic, not Moonie, not Manson. Mom and Dad said I could choose my religion when I was older, and in the mean time, I should spend Sundays at movies and museums.
But I wanted a faith, and I wanted one badly. So, at six I declared I was an “Pick-a-paleon” like my friend Jenny. She and her family dressed in angel costume and made bread for bake sales. It sounded like fun. Mom and Dad said I could go to church with Jenny, but I never did.
Instead, I joined the Girl Scouts.
I memorized all of the laws, earned every badge, wore my uniform with militancy and pride every Tuesday to school. Mrs. Grazer, the troop leader, became my minister. I eagerly paid her my weekly dues of one quarter, squeezed her hand extra tightly during the Friendship Squeeze, folded the flag smaller and tighter than any of the other girls and sold 200 boxes of cookies in a single week.
I devoutly followed Mrs. Grazer and the do-good girls in green until I was 15, and then I couldn’t take it anymore – I felt like a geek. So, I glommed onto the Grateful Dead.
I traded my sash for a stash, my flashlight for a black light, my beanie for a box of bootleg tapes. Mrs. Grazer was lost in the purple haze of a new phase, and Garcia became my God.
Mom and Dad became nervous. The camping trips had changed. I no longer trudged off with the troop to craft and plant seeds; instead I smoked weed in the woods.
I followed all of the Deadhead rules to a wavy “T.” I didn’t shave my armpits. I resented the rich. I learned all of the words to all of the songs on “Blues for Allah.” I followed the band everywhere – from Alpine Valley to the Oakland Coliseum to Freedom Hall. I tried to be as good a Deadhead as Jenny had been an Episcopalian.
And although as a Deadhead I learned a lot of rituals that I still practice today, like doing yoga and making shake-and-bake tofu, it was too defined. The same year I ditched being a disciple of The Dead, Mom and Dad got divorced. It didn’t surprise anyone, least of all me. They weren’t happy, but rather had followed the orders prescribed by their priest, a rabbi and their parents. It didn’t make sense after a while, so finally, Dad put his books in boxes and moved to a one-bedroom abode. Mom bought a condo and started wearing a cross. Both of them went back to smoking, but they also went back to smiling.
And suddenly I didn’t need a particular order anymore. Instead, I needed flexibility and variety. So I gathered my favorite parts of my past religions and created something completely new.
I now see it all as a delicious mix of Thin Mints, Caramel Delights, Shortbread, Samoas and Peanut Butter Patties in one box. My spirituality is a strange brew of beliefs: Mom’s Christianity cream filled between Dad’s Judaism. Garcia’s words – along with the words of many others – baked right into the Girl Scout Creed. And sometimes, I gotta gobble a Buddha brownie, a fat slab of Pagan potpie or a few crumbles of Chodron to nourish me along the way.
My religion isn’t black-and-white anymore. Instead, the entire spectrum is swirling into a tie-dye, a kaleidoscope, a parade of multi-colored dancing bears.
Dad was a grad student, studying maps and wars and gods. He was Jewish, divorced and wore his curly hair afro-style. Since Mom was no longer a nun, she became a rebel.
I was conceived on New Year’s Eve. After the liquor, the priest said a prayer at midnight, and then there was me. It was 1970. Marlo Thomas said we were free to be. Dylan said the times were a-changin’. Morrison said it was The End. So naturally, I was raised “nothing” – not Jewish or Catholic, not Moonie, not Manson. Mom and Dad said I could choose my religion when I was older, and in the mean time, I should spend Sundays at movies and museums.
But I wanted a faith, and I wanted one badly. So, at six I declared I was an “Pick-a-paleon” like my friend Jenny. She and her family dressed in angel costume and made bread for bake sales. It sounded like fun. Mom and Dad said I could go to church with Jenny, but I never did.
Instead, I joined the Girl Scouts.
I memorized all of the laws, earned every badge, wore my uniform with militancy and pride every Tuesday to school. Mrs. Grazer, the troop leader, became my minister. I eagerly paid her my weekly dues of one quarter, squeezed her hand extra tightly during the Friendship Squeeze, folded the flag smaller and tighter than any of the other girls and sold 200 boxes of cookies in a single week.
I devoutly followed Mrs. Grazer and the do-good girls in green until I was 15, and then I couldn’t take it anymore – I felt like a geek. So, I glommed onto the Grateful Dead.
I traded my sash for a stash, my flashlight for a black light, my beanie for a box of bootleg tapes. Mrs. Grazer was lost in the purple haze of a new phase, and Garcia became my God.
Mom and Dad became nervous. The camping trips had changed. I no longer trudged off with the troop to craft and plant seeds; instead I smoked weed in the woods.
I followed all of the Deadhead rules to a wavy “T.” I didn’t shave my armpits. I resented the rich. I learned all of the words to all of the songs on “Blues for Allah.” I followed the band everywhere – from Alpine Valley to the Oakland Coliseum to Freedom Hall. I tried to be as good a Deadhead as Jenny had been an Episcopalian.
And although as a Deadhead I learned a lot of rituals that I still practice today, like doing yoga and making shake-and-bake tofu, it was too defined. The same year I ditched being a disciple of The Dead, Mom and Dad got divorced. It didn’t surprise anyone, least of all me. They weren’t happy, but rather had followed the orders prescribed by their priest, a rabbi and their parents. It didn’t make sense after a while, so finally, Dad put his books in boxes and moved to a one-bedroom abode. Mom bought a condo and started wearing a cross. Both of them went back to smoking, but they also went back to smiling.
And suddenly I didn’t need a particular order anymore. Instead, I needed flexibility and variety. So I gathered my favorite parts of my past religions and created something completely new.
I now see it all as a delicious mix of Thin Mints, Caramel Delights, Shortbread, Samoas and Peanut Butter Patties in one box. My spirituality is a strange brew of beliefs: Mom’s Christianity cream filled between Dad’s Judaism. Garcia’s words – along with the words of many others – baked right into the Girl Scout Creed. And sometimes, I gotta gobble a Buddha brownie, a fat slab of Pagan potpie or a few crumbles of Chodron to nourish me along the way.
My religion isn’t black-and-white anymore. Instead, the entire spectrum is swirling into a tie-dye, a kaleidoscope, a parade of multi-colored dancing bears.
The Lighter Give-Back Program
Hello. My name is Molly and I steal lighters. I always have. It doesn’t matter if I’m on the smokes or off the smokes – those little plastic flame sparkers mysteriously migrate to the bottom of my purses and deep inside my pockets. Sometimes I come home from a night out with two or three new lighters, none of which belong to me. It’s bad.
So, in an effort to better my bad lighter karma, I started the Lighter Give Back Program. I plan to give away hundreds, maybe thousands, of lighters between now and 2015. Maybe longer, unless the kooks are right and the world really does end that year.
So, if I have stolen one of your lighters in the past, I am sorry, and you can hit me up for a new one at any time. Or, if you simply need a tool to kindle your Kool, blanche your bowl, ignite your incense or blaze up a birthday candle, I’m your gal.
Yours truly,
Molly “Sparky” Brevväxling
Executive Director for The Lighter Give Back Program
So, in an effort to better my bad lighter karma, I started the Lighter Give Back Program. I plan to give away hundreds, maybe thousands, of lighters between now and 2015. Maybe longer, unless the kooks are right and the world really does end that year.
So, if I have stolen one of your lighters in the past, I am sorry, and you can hit me up for a new one at any time. Or, if you simply need a tool to kindle your Kool, blanche your bowl, ignite your incense or blaze up a birthday candle, I’m your gal.
Yours truly,
Molly “Sparky” Brevväxling
Executive Director for The Lighter Give Back Program