The Garden

I gave you all my roses,
The many colors I had.
Cut them all from the bushes.
I knew there would be no more,
And I cut them for you.

The last few dozen blooms
I cut them down for you.
The bushes are dead now.

They will bud no more.
I double, triple checked.
The limbs snap crisply in dryness,
Easily between my weakened hands.
No supple green within.
A single snap finishes each limb.
And so finishes each bush.

I am done, a gardener
With nothing left to tend.

Definition of a Wife or a Valentine to My Wife

This piece came to me after reading a thread in a lesbian political group on Facebook. The thread was not about marriage or what you call your spouse but made in a conversation about a political topic. The comment was not argumentative, really it was rather simply stated that this woman would not call her partner, were they to ever marry, her wife since the term “wife” was part of the language of the patriarchy. I filtered this comment through my experience. You see, my late wife warned me before she died that her family would turn their backs on me no matter how supportive they seemed presently because they did not see our relationship as being equal to a heterosexual one, our love was “less than.” She said they would do this even though they had participated in our wedding. I was convinced they would not. Her prediction came true. They did see our relationship as less than, and based on their actions, I believe they would have taken everything from me if I hadn’t had that marriage license. Let’s face it, some in straight society will never want us to have rights or see us as equal. But some will eventually see our love, our grief, our struggles in the same light as their own if we use their language, their terms. Language is how we define and compare experiences. Language is our filter. My wife was my wife. No other term conveys the struggles, the grief, and the love contained in the time we had.

We all wanted the equality of marriage.
Yet some struggle with the titles and terms.
To say wife brings images of June Cleaver,
Perfectly coifed, perfectly applied makeup,
Wearing pearls as she cleans and cooks.
To say wife embraces the chains of the patriarchy,
At least, some say.

If we embrace the equality of marriage,
And not the trappings of a wedding,
What is the definition of a wife?
What does it mean to be a wife?

Doing the daily things to keep home going
That’s what a wife means.
Yes, it means the cooking, cleaning, laundry,
And more. Sometimes it means staying
When you feel like walking out.
Even before the government says
It is legal to call
Your wife your wife–
It means pulling yourself together
After you hear your wife has stage four ovarian cancer,
So you can be the one to break the news
When she wakes from the anesthesia
Of an emergency surgery.

That’s what it means to be a wife.

When a month later,
Late at night,
After another surgery,
Your wife turns her frightened eyes to you
And says that she doesn’t want chemo
Unless you are home to care for her.
Your choice—your career or her chance at life.
You resign the next day.

That’s the definition of a wife.

And so, it goes—
Surgeries and chemo—
But a prognosis of eighteen months
Turns into nearly five years—
In those years,
The Supreme Court says
You can finally call each other wife.
And marry to make it so.
Your daughter, thrilled,
Speaks eloquently about the love
Between the two of you encompassing her,
Protecting her.
You both cry. Neither of you had any idea
What the thirteen-year-old would say
When she stood to speak.
You kiss you wife’s bald head as she bows it
To wipe tears away.

That’s what it means to be a wife.

And then, very near the end,
You find them among
A mass of papers and bills
Your wife had run rampant through.
Hotel receipts. Hotel receipts
When you thought she had gone
To the casino with a friend.
You watch your wife sleep peacefully.
Heavy doses of morphine now.
Rarely does she wake. When she does,
She is thirsty and hungry.
She is wasting away.
Skin over a skeleton.
If she eats or drinks,
She vomits green bile
And the pain is like nothing
You’ve ever seen.
There will be no confrontation
Over hotel receipts.
So, she had another fling
With her high school flame,
A woman she first loved,
A woman who, for spite,
Married her husband
On your wife’s birthday.
Yes, your wife turned selfish this last
Year. Some dying turn generous and
Some turn selfish.
But you couldn’t deny the logic.
Afterall, your wife was the one dying,
As she was to always remind you.
You shred the hotel receipts.
Your daughter should never find them.
It would destroy her to know this.
And then you feel it.
Something is chiseled out of you,
Sharp edges remain.
Your wife cries out.
You run to the bedroom.
She has fallen and shit herself.
You get her up and to the bathroom.
You clean and bathe her.
Get her back into the bed.
She begs you for enough morphine to end it.
When you tell her you can’t do that,
She calls you a selfish bitch.
You give what’s prescribed by hospice.
She sleeps and so do you.

That’s the definition of a wife.

Hospice increases the morphine dose and strength.
To be given hourly.
The nurse wants to know if you want a nurse
Around the clock.
You say your wife said no.
She said she didn’t want that.
You honor every wish she had.

That’s what it means to be a wife.

For five days she does not wake.
For five days you do not sleep.
Energy drinks and coffee are your magic elixirs.
You administer the morphine as the hospice nurse instructed.
You know what they are having you do.
Slowly, slowly, this increased strength and hourly dose
Is killing your wife, shutting down her organs.

Yes, it is a mercy.
She couldn’t drink or eat.
The hospice nurse visits every day.
She says the pulse is weak in your wife’s ankles.
24 to 48 hours at the most she says on day four.
The nurse clasps your shoulder on the way out.

That’s the definition of a wife.

Your wife mutters,
“I’m sorry, so sorry.”
Three times before
Midnight of the fifth day.
You do not know to whom
Or for what your wife apologizes.
Her words have no reference point
And never will.
Your daughter comes home
From a friend’s birthday party
At ten o’clock.
She checks on you and your wife.
“I’m sorry, so sorry,”
Your wife mutters for the last time.
Your daughter asks why she’s saying that.
You say you don’t know.
The rain starts. It’s pouring down.
Eleven o’clock– a dose of morphine.
The rain hasn’t stopped.
Midnight. Your daughter checks to see if you need anything.
You ask her to make a pot of coffee.
Another dose of morphine.
You swipe your wife’s lips with a sponge
To keep them moist.
As you are rinsing the oral syringe,
You hear the breath, the rattle.
You walk to the bed.
Place your hand on your wife’s chest.
It is still. No rise. No fall. Still.
Your head falls upon your hand.
Your daughter comes in and asks
What is wrong. You tell her it is over. Done.
She places her hand next to yours.
She feels the stillness.
She screams no.
And runs to her room,
Slamming her door
As if it would shut out
Time and death.

That’s what it means to be a wife.

You call your wife’s parents next,
The hospice nurse after them,
The funeral director is called last.
You endure the parents
Because you can’t imagine their pain.
They must bury a child.
The nurse certifies the death and tosses
The drugs and leaves. She handles it all
Efficiently. Then the funeral director arrives.

It is still pouring rain.
They wait patiently in the hall.
The parents leave.
You ask your daughter if she wants a moment
To say good-bye.
She takes it, telling you she’d like to be alone with your wife.
You wait patiently with the funeral director and the assistant
In the hallway.
Something hollow settles in your chest.
Your daughter leaves the bedroom
And you take your turn.
Your wife is gone.
You stroke her forehead.
Take her hand.
It is over. It is done.
Five years of grieving,
Losing pieces of your lives together,
Watching plans melt away,
Watching the woman you love disappear
As the cancer spread to the brain
And behavior became irrational,
Accusing, and you became the
Whipping post for all the things lost,
All the things your wife felt slipping away.
You wonder how much grief there could be left,
How much more could be felt after all this?
You let the funeral director and assistant
Take your wife away. They tell you to look away
And so gently close the door.
She is covered on the gurney when they open the door.
It is still pouring rain
As they take her out the front door and into the hearse.
You close the door. There is much to do.
You drink coffee until sunrise. It stops raining.
You will sleep today, you suppose. Later.
After…After so many things to do…
After the hollowness inside is hollowed out
After the sharp edges wear away
When feeling returns

That’s the definition of a wife.

For better and for worse.
In sickness and in health.
Love and cherish
To have and to hold

This is all of it—
The equality of love.
This is a marriage.
This is the definition, the meaning
Of what it is to be a wife,
And what it can convey of a heart.

Lies We Tell Ourselves

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image from Pinterest

The lies we tell ourselves
Such sparkling things.

Belief needed in the moment–
See diamonds, rubies, sapphires,
Gold, treasures to cherish.
Let the mirror reflect
The lies to eyes
And souls
In needing desire.
Do not hold them in harsh sun.
Too thin,
Too frail,
Too fragile
To withstand such blazing light.

Gently bury them deep
Beneath the soil
Of a needing heart
And the damp decay
Of foolish wants.
Let the lies take root
Growing into the very soul.

Believing
The lies
We tell ourselves,
We smile
To keep
The truth at bay,
As the lies grow
The rot of hopelessness
Into our very souls.

The Words

I
Words scattered across the page.
Words littering the soul.

All these words
Piled upon the table,
A hoarder’s table of words.

Words left unsaid,
Unwritten,
A bouquet of words
Wilting in the heart and mind.

Words twisted in contortionist meaning
Of manipulations,
Weaponized for destruction,
Yet leaving victims living.
II
Words of things that can’t be said.
Words of things that should have been.
Words of things we could not speak out of fears too deep.
Words of things we could not begin to understand
Of ourselves, of each other.
Words of things we wanted so to believe
Of others, of the world.
Words of hope
Of love
Of charity
Of peace.
Words of what we have lost.
Words of what we may never again find.
III
Words, words, words
Slipping through the fingers
Like water in a desert,
Dripping away, evaporating
Before they can be used.

Words, words, words
Twisting round the wrists,
Writhing up the arms,
Biting the face and neck,
Killing before they can be used.

Words, words, words
Left unread by faded ink,
Left unwritten by a tired mind,
Left unsaid by a fear filled mouth.

 

No Winning

No winning in this loosing.

Chunks of soil eroded,
Carried away by this freezing rain.

No artifice found in storm winds,
leaving an icy slush of blood
In the veins,

Or the heated words you
Coated with never melting ice.

The fire you set
Left forever unkindled.

How you must love your
Barren winter landscape,
A frozen revenge,
A frosty meaningless game.

Under A North Texas Sky

my own image

No roots here,
Not under this.
Not under this,
North Texas sky.
Nothing grew,
Nothing rooted,
Although I tried.

I planted native plants,
Fertilized and tended,
Weeded and watered,
Talked lovingly even,
Became the crazy lady
With the plants.

For a bit, just a bit,
Each plant bloomed
In wonderful cinematic, 
Glorious technicolor.
I would think– 
I’ve got it right!
But no. Each would start
To wilt and fade.
I googled and researched,
Soil tested even.
Yes, it’s true– to know
What to do.
But I was doing everything right.

No expert could tell me true,
Just why I could not
Get anything to flourish,
to grow, to root
In this, this North Texas soil
Under this, this North Texas sky.

A Tree in Winter

Getty Images vandervelden

My hope is
Different now,
Changed, evolved.
Once a verdant green
Of fresh, newborn spring.
Now evolved into this chilly thing–
Brown, dried husks,
A few barely clinging
To a tree in late autumn.
Seems something, someone
Sucked the hope out,
Fed on it as if it were life’s blood,
And I am left drained, a leftover hull
Of what once was. But I go on
As if all is the same and nothing
Is gone. A tree in winter,
Hoping enough green
Is left to grow, to live in spring.