Transition Time
All text taken from The Women’s Times, July and October 2005, Northampton, MA
A catalyst, a guru, a fearless
14-year-old in her first strapless dress,
you go unrecognized,
tight in the bud, more painful than the bloom
whose summertime lures us
with one common goal: to not be rolled over
by the weight of life. Fragile and delicate
as dough, your prospects stall you with excuses.
After training for years
to be buried in sand, packed in sawdust,
left in the ground
under a heavy layer of mulch,
you’ve learned to watch the pain
munching on your gender since childhood, harvesting
the meatier sections, legs and hips and knees,
while you retreat, just out of reach,
a balance not allowed to be,
a discreet oxygen tank maintained
for the benefit of other people.
Ready to leave that pose?
A large door
opens in one wall, a footbridge connecting
to a house with snow in the center,
a historically accurate reproduction
of your attempts to make male and female nourish
homes and normal-looking places.
So much is growing there: clematis
of varying shapes and sizes, bread and salad
and the fragility of others—
an excessively bountiful crop—
bittersweet, upside-down genders
striking bargains, cutting gardens,
appearing to level the world.
This is a part-time position. A difficult pregnancy.
Go in and chop down
who you meant to be, clearing land
for beautiful, invasive plants
that will change the ecological balance,
honoring the soul
and her need to be embodied
after 20 years of contraception
as a new wife
who suffers none of your inhibitions.
There’ll be no turning back. A hurricane is coming,
equal parts God and female,
shaking in celebration
behind rolling hills, winding rivers,
day-to-day existence, looking for a home
in the middle of your life. Remove your roadblocks
any time, day or night.
Chop and measure and stir yourself
into a delicious middle-aged body.
Woman—in terms of essence
reclaiming the world.
Can this woman rebuild a world
from the ruins of internal landscapes?
She thinks so, dear reader.
Alarming and bizarre as the birth sounds,
the old life ends on the heels of awe.
The heart attack always telling us stories
of divorce and departure
is the first course in a meal that ends
with a sense of having reaped
a new person
fusing all directions: a parent
who finds it hard to let go; a little girl
giving birth to a tiger;
God’s presence, a confirmed wall-flower,
let loose with a reckless swing.
