What Kind of Woman: Poems

For now just remember how you felt the day you were born: desperate for magic, ready to love.

What kind of man does not give up his time, his many pleasures, but hands them over without a sound. What kind of man bends to hold them in their suffering, in their questions, in their garbled turns of phrase. What kind of man admits his failures, turns over his heavy stones, stands at the feet of grief and wanting does not turn away. What kind of man becomes a father. A lasting place. A steady ship inside a tireless storm.

You do not have to choose one or the other: a dream or a dreamer, the bird or the birder. You may be a woman of commotion and quiet. Magic and brain. You can be a mother and a poet. A wife and a lover. You can dance on the graves you dug on Tuesday, pulling out the bones of yourself you began to miss.

Like a Wife The week before my wedding, my friend's dad said: just don't get fat, like other wives do. And so I brined him in a deep salt bath, added thyme and celery. Devoured him whole, in one big bite, so he could see just how hungry a woman can be.

To Take Back a Life First, you must learn desire. Hold its fruit in your hands. Unmarry it from the hunger to be held, to be wanted, to be called from the streets like the family dog. You are not a 'good girl.' You are not somebody's otherness. This is not a dress rehearsal before a better kind of life. Pick up your heavy burdens and leave them at the gate. I will hold the door for you.

What is the word for when the light leaves the body? What is the word for when it, at last, returns?

Nothing Tastes as Good as Skinny Feels Unless you count your grandmother’s cake, hand mixed while she waits for the sound of your breath at the door. Or if you consider the taste of the sea, arms raised while you enter, salt at your lips. Or maybe you’ve forgotten the taste of a lover, your mouth on his skin. I ask—have you ever tasted the cool swill of freedom? The consuming rush of a quiet, radical love.

This is not a dress rehearsal before a better kind of life. Pick up your heavy burdens and leave them at the gate. I will hold the door for you.

At any given moment there is someone getting what they always wanted. I know no quicker way to ruin a day than to dwell on this.

The Women Who Walk Us Home The ones who arrive with a bag of clothes, four tired lemons, half a story from her sister's trip to Paraguay. The ones who keep our secrets and whose secrets we keep in potted plants, in every ocean we've ever known. The ones who know our husbands, their little pleasures. Our lovers and our scars. The ones who stay, hope like a moth. Who stare into the gaping tomb and are not afraid of its unveiling. The ones who will be there, even then (even then), to walk us home.

In the morning, I take your picture in front of the sign, gaps in your teeth. I do not say a life without you is not worth living. I do not say I've memorized every inch of your frame. Instead, I wave at your hand waving. Instead, I say goodbye.

Experience will teach you two things: you are the mother and it's okay to let them go up the slide.

(Did you know when you bait a deer it’s called a violation, but when you poison a girl it’s called a date.)

When someone asks for the secret to a happy marriage, remember you don't know. This is not a happy ending. This is not a fairy tale. This is the beginning of a life you haven't met.

Sometimes I imagine what it’d be like to show you I’m alive. The thrill of it. The sharp inhale. The nerve exposed. The bone.

What time will you be home? What time do you think you may be home? What time should we wait for you outside on the lawn while the pasta boils over and the baby cries because he misses you? Oh, before I go- what time will you be home?

Unclasp the thought of leaving, tie it to the door.

Moon Song You are not an evergreen, unchanged by the pitiless snow. You are not a photo, a brand, a character written for sex or house or show. You do not have to choose one or the other: a dream or a dreamer, the bird or the birder. You may be a woman of commotion and quiet. Magic and brain. You can be a mother and a poet. A wife and a lover. You can dance on the graves you dug on Tuesday, pulling out the bones of yourself you began to miss. You can be the sun and the moon. The dance a victory song.

This is not a dress rehearsal for a better life.

Ode to My Desire I have always been hungry; fingers dipped in sugar, salt across my lips. Four children have passed through my body and still here I am, asking for your hands on my hips, voice in my ear. For melon and honey cream. For you to not make love to me. Take me— but wait until I plead. There is nothing like the impatient thrum of wanting. All legs and foaming mouth. In hallways I play a game called 'kissing,' imagining every woman as a lover, every man with his mouth on mine. How different they must look when they are in heat.

You can dance on the graves you dug on Tuesday, pulling out the bones of yourself you began to miss.

Transfiguration I dreamt myself into a mother, but when I became her, I had to dream her back into a woman back into a woman back into a woman again. Good Mother She lies on her back, open shirt like a wound, and waits for the start of her baby crying.

You can be the sun and the moon.

we complain about the price of coffee as if it isn't becoming extinct along with the rest of us

Go to be angry. Wake up with a plan.

you must learn desire. Hold its fruit in your hands. Unmarry it from the hunger to be held, to be wanted, to be called from the streets like the family dog. You are not a good girl. You are not somebody’s otherness. This is not a dress rehearsal before a better kind of life. Pick up your heavy burdens and leave them at the gate. I will hold the door for you.

I dreamt myself into a mother, but when I became her, I had to dream her back into a woman back into a woman back into a woman again.

The week before my wedding, my friend’s dad said: just don’t get fat, like other wives do. And so I brined him in a deep salt bath, added thyme and celery. Devoured him whole, in one big bite, so he could see just how hungry a woman can be.

When life throws you a bag of sorrow, hold out your hands.

At any given moment there is someone getting what they always wanted. I know no quicker way to ruin a day than to dwell on this. Some Nights Some nights she walks out to the driveway where the lilacs bloom and lies down on the warm pavement even though the neighbors will see and wonder what kind of woman does such things.