I am a lover
in dreams
a wife
later on
a mother
hypothetically
an idea
forever
always
always
always
available to
be a girlfriend
good for a
flatter
a flirt
when I’m not
being a brick wall
I am of my own creation
You reap just what you sew
I am a fantasy
good for only
brief periods
of a man’s day
outliving the
otherwoman’s
demands
I live
in the space
before sleeping
in the stolen time
after dinner when
your wife
is cleaning up
I live in your
dusty roads
lined with roses
and sunset light
I am an idea
an adventure
I show up
on mountain-tops
when you’ve fallen
behind the group
and feel
that someone’s
there with you,
that’s me
You think,
I know who
would like this place
You give me that.
Category: Writing
Off-Track III
Days off
these days
are for
carefully scanning
my body for signs
of life
desperately scanning
my mind
unraveling
the truth
of my friends
crying to the
moon for help
having a hard time
holding my head
up high
folding in,
caving in
to the noodles
of blankets on
my bed
letting go
watching
my hopes
take flight
like a
balloon
in the
wind
Off-Track II
Days off
these days
are for
longing,
skipping,
long walk walking
poetry
bars for breakfast
potatoes and eggs
kicking stones
friends like squirrels
and birds
and gnomes
homes where nobody’s home
but working and I’m thinking
have fun in there
whisper-staring through the
front window at a dusty dining
room table, at the tall burgundy
taper candles still
in their wrappers
wicks never been lit
Days off are for judging
watching my feet on the
concrete
pine needles, the straws
from convenient store cups
the occasional cigarette butt
and I’d be lying if I left out
that I still, out of habit,
hope for a
long one
poor
trash
girl
Days off are too hot,
pleasant when they’re rainy
optimistic or full-of-shit
Quiet
Loud
I regulate
the sound
Days off are liquid
coffee grounds in
the wastebasket
and why do they
make those things white?
Days off are songs
on the radio that make
me say man I wish
I could wail like that
Days off are
long and
mysterious
these days
Off-Track
Days off
these days
are for
longing
skipping
long walk walking
poetry
bars for breakfast
potatoes and eggs for supper
remembering Grandma Faith
and how it was she who said ‘supper’
loving great-grandmother but hating the
word supper because of all the dirt, red air,
evil stares, soggy tomatoes, oily cups of coffee
and greasy pianos that were my childhood with her
No, I’m Good!
I am only
weeping,
screaming,
and calling
to humor you!
I do not despise
the world and
all those
within it.
I do not fear
that insanity
is upon me,
not really.
I do not pace
my space and
tug at my hair
for fear that I
will never again
be rightfully loved.
I did not go from
over-the-moon
to bottom-of-the-sea
all because of three
little words you never
said to me.
Your absence did not
tail-spin me into isolation,
fear, and fool.
I am perfectly capable
and hopeful!
You had nothing
to do with my head
ballooning to the sky
and getting gnarled in the trees.
You are not the reason
I see Lucifer in the face
of all those around me.
You did not tap a place
inside of me that only
knows rage and sadness.
You did not remind
me of how little I am
loved, of how unlovable
I am.
You did not!
The Ol’ Hometown
There is nothing
I love more
than your morning
stretching out
from the sea
to the hills
and south,
pouring in
through
the trees
lighting up
the forest floor
daring the
people to
stumble from
their trailer doors
for pots of coffee
at the Fisherman’s
Restaurant and
for mountain-people
drawl over KCRE
radio
My hometown
watches soggy
bottom toddlers
grow up fast,
JR this JR that
Often people
hit big trees
with their
cars and die
He was a good guy
He was a good guy
We scan the paper
for friends and foe
just drunk and in
the tank or
worse maybe
He was a good guy
Mysterious people
get engaged and
have babies
and they get
their pictures
in the paper
their shining faces
are from out-of-town
and I think
what are they
running from?
They come in
for good jobs
with the city
and never
leave
But every
day they wonder
why not?
Save the sunsets
and sea lions
their aint
much to speak
of here
This is Mundane Business
It’s all about
accepting the space
between really living
and the
face scrubbing,
dishwashing,
pajama-putting-on,
mail opening,
penny pinching,
toenail pickin’,
great-aunt calling,
lunch makin’,
list checking,
clock punchin’,
goddamn
car washin’
oil changin’
money chasin’
space
of
it
all
We All Remember (Cabin Kids)
We all remember
the running and playing
how we cursed darkness
and dinner bells,
tumbling in at
dusk’s very
last moment
before the sky winks the
day goodbye
catching your breath
before the
closed cabin door
waving goodbye,
Johnny, an unassuming boy
hollering have a good night!
hands-sapped,
knees-scraped,
buttons burst,
braid unravelled
We all remember
our hair stuck
to our foreheads
or long streams of sweat
dripping down, traveling the
length of our nose,
those ninety-degree
summer nights
We remember our
parents saying
I wish I could bottle
that energy and sell it!
before ashing in their
beer can,
white flakes
falling
on a
plate
of
franks
and
ketchup
The Time, Mother
The time you changed your name from Darlene to Brenda
The time you gave me a blonde baby doll and told me I had a brother on the way
The time you tied a friendship bracelet on my wrist and said now I’ll always be with you
The time we stopped to pick a rose on the shoulder of the highway…and it came with a bee
The time you made long, dangling hippie earrings–for a living
The time my room flooded and you cried because you felt bad
The time you bought ten hamburgers from McDonald’s and for the first time we all got full
The time we looked at a house we couldn’t afford and we all picked out bedrooms anyway
The time you took me to the Bayshore Mall and bought me an eggshell-colored Easter dress
The time you put barrettes in my hair (I don’t remember it but I saw the pictures)
The time you sang You Are My Sunshine to Cloud and I looked out the window and held back tears
The time you volunteered at my school library and I was embarrassed because of your short, slutty shorts
The time you lit a cigarette, looked at me and said don’t ever do this
The time I stole 2 cigarettes from you and you never found out
The time I realized our hands and fingernails look exactly alike
8:05 p.m. the time you gave birth to me, far too young
The time you failed to meet the expectations of your adopted mother
The time I knew exactly how it felt
The time your dad died and if you hadn’t already lost all hope, you really did then
The time you tried to wriggle your way into societies mold but it just didn’t work
The time you introduced yourself as Moonbeam and it all made sense to me
The time you socked my dad through the pick-up truck window
The time we left you in the dust
All the times you left me in the dust
The time you cried and said you’re sorry
The other time you cried and said you’re sorry
The many other times you cried and said you’re sorry
The time you googled me everyday for five years but never called or emailed
The time you said I’m so proud of you and in my mind I said for fucking what?
The time you said Enough already! and I said Okay
Fleeting Lust
The temperature
of thy hands speak
nothing of thine heart,
of thine passionate spirit
In the wind goes the
crimson and red
of your lust
in one ear
and out
the other
TERAH RACHELLE VAN DUSEN 