So What am I Today?

I always feared permanence.
So why, now, the hurt?

I’ll keep writing with my pencil
In notebooks without lines. Facing erasure.
How temporary.
They could burn,
or get lost,
or get stolen
Like their lacking lines
Which were stolen off the page.

I no longer know where, exactly
I am expected to write.
Or how,
Given that it will all change tomorrow.
I can only hope that my change will be directed
Towards my self,
That one I’m supposed to be,
Tomorrow.

/michal

Packets of Time: Particle Theory of Love

I am waiting for enough moments
to pass until
I am no longer fighting urges
to call him.

I go through the motions of my day,
slowly unfreezing,
hurriedly wondering,
at what point is it acceptable for me
to be light again?

Some days have lighter moments
which cloud over with guilt:
How dare I be okay?
What about him?
Is he okay?

I am waiting for enough moments
to combine until
I start stitching myself back up,
through packets of time.

/michal

Part 3 of 3: Learning to Heal

Of course I am spinning around
still
in my own little circle, but why
can’t I stop?

I can’t see
the world around me.
It does not keep up with my speed
Like my hands
Which I see clearly (spinning with me).
But the world, a blur.

Let me slow down
And see my reflection
And breathe in sync with her lungs.

I had a small doll once
(With silvery blue hair)
And her hands were sewn together
To make a loop for her knees
To tuck into.
She would sit there and hug herself
And that is all she did.

/michal

Singing in the Bomb Shelter

Music class was held in the bomb shelter down the hall from my senior kindergarten homeroom. The shelter was plain with thick walls, so inside the acoustics were good. We inhabited a musical safe zone where we could play anything and not get hurt. My music teacher had a Russian accent that made her words taste funny in my ears. She sat on the floor between our tapping feet and sang as we tightly held the mallets with our childish hands. I focused on the rubber ball on the other end of my mallet, hitting and bouncing off the metal slate of the xylophone. The room was long, narrow, and cold like the xylophone slate. There was no space to sit in a circle, so we sat on the bench beside each other and faced the bricks in front of us. Hidden and safe.

/michal

Conversations with My Father

It’s not your fault that you told me to go on a diet when I was 7. It’s not your fault that you told me I looked 4 months pregnant after a holiday meal. It’s not your fault for yelling at my mom for eating 3 grapes after dinner. It’s not your fault that you look me up and down when I come home, checking to see that I am still skinny and within your standards.

It’s my fault for remembering.

Right?

You tell me to take myself less seriously.

/michal

Remedies

On our last night you asked me
What I didn’t like about my body.
I got frustrated
(Too many things to list)
Why would anyone ask that?

You wanted to kiss all the parts
I didn’t like
Until I would like them.

So I named a few parts
And you put your head under the sheets
And kissed them until I fell asleep.

Today I want to tell you
Which parts I don’t like
(The parts my father pointed out to me)
But you aren’t here to kiss me any longer.
(Let me heal myself)

/michal