The Girls in the Park

Today walking, almost running, through the park, I became overly aware of my breasts. Let's call them boobs.

I could feel them full, round, and heavy. These breasts, I mean boobs, begged to feel the crisp sunshine filled air.

I imagined them on the beach, in the partial shade to protect them from the sun. Saw them in the mountain meadow, puckered to perfection in the chilly breeze.

These breasts, I mean boobs, felt full. They are full of love, full of maternal care, full of the desire to please and pacify. They are full of devotion and rage, full of shame and lust. All of me are contained in them.

There is fear in them. There is fear of loss, fear of aging, fear of cancer. I used to say it wouldn't bother me. Losing my...boobs. Or boob. But it would. It would. I know my mother faced this loss. She faced it with no reassurance of love. Of sexiness. I wonder what she held in hers.

I held them briefly in the park, while continuing to walk. Grasped them one after the other. Thought of your hands on them. How the girls liked your touch more than any other. How they became something more under your touch. How my whole being felt safe, carried, desired, and nurtured when you held them. Held my breasts, I mean boobs.

I mean the girls. Playing in the park in the crisp sunshine filled air.

Inspired by Hank

He was worried about his girl.

He hadn’t heard from her or seen her in weeks.

He knew something was wrong the last time she came over.

She seemed listless.  Uninterested in the food he had laid out for her.

Nervous, almost paranoid.

He wondered if she was at some other man’s house right now.

She missed him. 

There was so much to do to get ready.

While he was a source of comfort; he now was a source of anxiety as well.

She didn’t fully understand the change, but instinctively knew she had to listen to it.

She felt the movement again and knew she had to hurry.

Nest building.  She was so hungry now all of the time. 

She could have used a good meal, the kind he offered; but there was no time.

He stood on the porch, and shook the can.

Then he sat and waited.

He had almost given up, when there she was –  by the fence.

She hesitated before coming forward, all the way to the bottom of the stairs.

He watched her, she stood there and then made a small noise in the back of her throat.

Here came the babies.  Then she scurried up the stairs, on to his knee and took

     the peanut he offered her from his hand.

It's been too long

Miter saw buzzing, 
Classic rock, sawdust filled air. 
Your joy palpable.

Knit one, Purl two

Frank had watched Minerva knit, 
sitting in her blue flowered BarcaLounger for years. 
He had worn her lopsided sweater vests, nubbly socks, and headache hats; afraid to say anything for fear of hurting her feelings. 
He had listened to the click click of the needles
while he did his crypto quotes and crosswords,
and never complained. 
And now he painstakingly grasped the needles
and peered at the instructions. 
Determined to knit, knit her a blanket to cover her
as she rested in her casket. 

Winter's Burn

No snow for Christmas
We have killed the polar bears
Shorts in December

Gathering some kindle

Let's try something fresh.


Frosty

In Fargo, on January 27th, just before the sun came up
Martha, just shy of her 82nd birthday went out to fill her feathered friend's feeders
She heard the door click shut, too late.
Filled the feeders.
And settled in for what she knew would be a long winter's nap.