A New Kind

We are a new kind of woman.
No, we are the women of all women.
Beatniks incarnate.
We are waiting for America to change,
we are still walking.
Give us a book, we’ll read it like a man,
Our opinions speak for themselves.
We don’t rhyme often,
but when we do,
take notice.
Because we drink whiskey shots off table tops.

We make your mothers blush.

We’re loud
and we scream:
"Viva La RevoluciĆ³n, baby!" and dance
with one fist in the air.

Because we know that change doesn’t
begin with a legislation,
but in us.

Reconstruction isn’t in bombs, but in love.
Not in the straight-backed pews, but on the streets.
We are the breath, the heartbeat of the world.


You are the root of the root.

Billy Collins

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker

and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.

There is just no way you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close

to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner

nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,

that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley,

and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I am not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow-- the wine.


While You Were Sleeping

Variations on the Word Sleep
By Margaret Atwood

I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head

and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear

I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in

I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.


If you're too afraid of the tears, then just run and hide.

Tonight I saw my father cry. There are no words but to say that it scared the shit out of me, to see the man who is king of my world, the man who carried me outside to see the moon when I was too tiny to know that there was a sky above shed tears of distress. Because suddenly, that man who was giant and untouchable became the old man sitting on the edge of my parents bed with his head on my mother's breast sobbing out of desperation and confusion.
Each tear shed was an anvil tied around the string of my heart. I've only known my father to cry twice in my life. Once when my brother Timmy died... but that was simply a story told to me by our family pastor; simply hearsay, but it haunted my pastor too, to see my stoic father in agony over Timmy's death. The pastor said that was something he would never forget--indeed it is. The second time was when I was about nineteen: I was coming out of a severally rebellious stage, which had driven a wedge between my father and myself. One fateful night, he simply gathered me in his arms and told me he loved me. It was as if a scene from some Hallmark movie had lifted its skit and crossed the TV's threshold into our living room, because he held me a sobbed.
Now I'm not against tears, a few tears now and then is a healthy thing. Tears of pain, tears of joy are one thing-- but tears of desperation, tears of fear are something completely different. I've never known my father not to have things together, not to have an answer.
That is what scares the shit out of me.
In retrospect, I realized that there was only one person I wanted to talk to, one person I wanted to share this with, my fears and anxieties... that person I've placed as far from my life as can be. That person is a non-existent blip on my radar screen. I don't want to be the person without anyone to share a life with.
I was not meant to be alone.