I wish you wouldn’t cry. I’ve always hated the sight of your tears. I remember years ago when you were just a toddler, your mother and I took you to Sea World to see the dolphins, and you laughed and laughed during the show. But as soon as the show was over, we took you back through the aquarium and you saw one of the dolphins behind a cage. Oh Lord, the tears that came out of you that day. _Daddy, they shouldn’t keep a dolphin behind a cage. He should be out there in the ocean with his family. _I tried to explain that the dolphin had been hurt and that’s why they had taken it from the ocean, but that didn’t matter to you. You wailed. You insisted that the dolphin needed its family, and you wanted us to do something right then to rescue Flipper. We had to promise you that we would come back the next week to make sure the dolphin was back home. Thankfully, you must have forgotten because I don’t know what we would have done. Your mother and I never sent you on any of the school field trips to the zoo because we were afraid you would have that same reaction with your teachers. It sure was something. Seeing you cry today isn’t any easier, my darling. Especially when there’s nothing to be done to console you. I watch as you hunch your body over, holding your guts as if you may lose control of them at any moment. That boy you’ve been seeing—what’s his name?—Anthony—Tony—he hands you a handkerchief. There’s something good to be said for him at least. He came prepared and didn’t let my daughter cry in disposable tissue. That’s a good fella for you. Your mother is holding a whole box of them, and it really isn’t very becoming, though I could never hold it against her, I’m sure you know. I should have been the one to make sure she was prepared, but… Circumstances as they are, I understand her lack of forethought.
Money My husband Watches every penny Until I can’t breathe Thinking about the bank statement Every time I want to purchase A sweater, a pair of jeans, McDonalds. Something for myself. something for my two daughters, To ease the sadness of the chaos of life, To ease the deficit on the statement of our love.
I use you for sitting. Men have a lot to say about that. Sit down and shut up! Why don't you get up off your fat ass? It’s always a struggle, figuring out what a man really wants from you. “A heart-shaped ass is best,” he told me. My love handles sort of make mine an Upside-down obtuse triangle. I wish more than anything that the sharp Errors of my angles could be rounded Into something attractive. But at least I can sit, Alone, and ponder the power of my posterior. My ass turns all kinds of heads. Even women, who preach positivity, Positively whisper when I walk by. My breasts, which also sag in unnatural ways, Look perfectly perky in a proper bra. My ass allows me to sit, thinking about the wild, wired Contraption that could do the same for my derrière. My brain may conjure up ideas about other people, But my ass is the catalyst, the cause, the chimera That I fight every day, even from the chair.
Shooting stars fall from the heavens, and, Instead of working, doing, making sacrifice, I pray; I make a wish on debris that burns upon Entering the atmosphere. Millions of meteors collide Each day without our notice and so my fucking falling farce isn't that special. My father called his belief in the Creative force of the universe faith. Jeminy Cricket said no request was too extreme as long as my heart was in it. Well, fuck the Blue Fairy! My father is dead, and no dream or desire or spacial detritus will deliver him to me again.
I stood in front of the classroom, hoping to solidify my persona as a capable adult. So far, in the short time I had been working with this group, it seemed I had only demonstrated my ability to make a fool out of myself. How could a room full of middle-school-aged children make me question my life’s purpose? In the days leading up to this crucial, last evaluation day, these monsters had turned all my lessons upside down and incapacitated me with their berating comments on my outfit, my hair, my shoes, my manicure. Hell, even my innocuous name — Ms. Martin— led to a fit of giggles as students progressed from Ms. Martini to Ms. James Bond to Ms. Moneypenny. Who knew middle schoolers were so well versed in 007? As my college mentor stood watching, I could only pray that the gods were in my favor and the students were too, at least a little bit.
