Til’ Death Do Us Part By M.J. Tenerelli For Jack; as explanation. To Kate; for inspiration. CONTENTS 1. For Sonny 2. The Intensive Care Cafe 3. Bug 4. Finish Line 5. Career Crisis 6. Toil and Trouble 7. Postpartum Mama 8. The Damn Prozac Isn't Working Anymore 9. Resume 10. Almost Bulimic 11. Asking For It 12. Take it From Me 13. The Danger of Dating the Newly Divorced 14. Night Drive 15. Religious Concerns 16. If They Take the Kids Away from Me, Maybe I'll Sleep the Night 17. Bravado 18. Selective Vision 19. Hope Does Not Spring Eternal 20. On the North Fork and Forgetting 21. Resistance is Futile 22. Hard Work 23. It's a Girl! 24. Single Mother Vs. Boy From a Broken Home 25. No Clemency 26. Worship 27. Muse 28. New Mexican Lesson For Sonny I watched my father die And it was gentle; A simple cessation of breath After so much suffering. I grieve for my loss But not for him. He is in some celestial poolhall In eternal Brooklyn With a full head of hair And a sharp suit. Later he will grab a cab To Manhattan to see Sinatra And dance at the Copa. Dawn will find him On a bridge Tossing coins into the mythical Hudson. One for Jack, to keep him safe; One for Kate, "Be content baby"; And one for Matthew, "Stay warm." Then he lifts off for Japan After the war. The sun glints off guardian wings. The Intensive Care Cafe We brought you in and they laid you out On a gurney next to an angry man Whose sister wouldn't shut up. The curtain between you was no match For her fear and his impatience. Was it his gallbladder again? You were dying quietly. The priest had to turn around on the Merritt, To come back for last rites. I went for coffee like everything was normal. The sign in the basement said "Intensive Care," with an arrow, and "Cafe" underneath it. I brought you back a joke. "Here's coffee from the Intensive Care Cafe," Forgetting you don't find me funny In the best of times. I rub your feet and you like that; Dutiful instead of smart-ass. I think about going into labor In Barnes and Noble at Christmastime; You trying to drag me out by the arm, Me still shopping. "I've been through this before," I tell you, "Don't panic." Now I try taking my own advice While your oxygen level refuses to light up the monitor. I'm mistrusting everybody here for you. Your golf shoes, the grandkids, your black Lincoln, Are all in the parking-lot, waiting Bug Here comes the deadly trio. Today they're here to talk About feeding tubes, And how fast the cancer is going to spread, Because chemo charred your throat And you can't have any more treatment. Doctors 1, 2, and 3 look us in the eyes and smirk. We are troublesome, stupid, and nagging as gnats on the beach. We are so stupid we think we have the right To ask questions. To stare back. To notify their superiors. They shoot hospice options and dire scenarios At the man in the bed who can sort Out nothing they say. He can hear though That he's despised in an impersonal way, The way you might recoil at a roach, Or a mouse in your clean kitchen cabinet. If the good doctors could do what they want They would order a nurse, (Those doers of dirty work) To crush you under crepe-soled shoes, And mop up the mess. Silverfish; insignificant; air breather. Finish Line We all know it's your last day And duck out when we can To breath the air Outside your room. Death smells bad; The flesh giving over in noxious inches. We sit vigil as long as we can, after all we are wanted. Making us witness to this withering Is your last show of strength. Who among us has ever told you no? In all honesty, we can hardly tear ourselves away. Something this horrible has got to be seen to be believed. And then there is the love. It sends us out to the lounge When breathing you in becomes impossible, And back to your fetid bedside When easy oxygen No longer works Its simple appeal. Career Crisis I think I missed my calling. I am a writer But I could have been A planner of parties, a custom caterer. Just look at the grace and efficiency That went into your farewell gala: A quick survey of homes, A once over for each director; And an informed pick of a pine box, Varnished cherry for tony presentation. Simple surroundings, Spare yet moving readings, And tasteful memorial cards, Were all on my list, To be meticulously ticked off. I took care to create An occasion to be fondly remembered. That attention to perfect detail Helped pull a protective tarp Over the frightful flop of that other gathering. There was a party that couldn't be prettied; An intimate crowd Of your nearest and dearest Without the balm and benefit Of floral arrangements and your final silence. THAT shindig's theme was the brutal here, Not the sweet hereafter, or the whitewashed what was. It was filled with your frantic pantomimes For more morphine, your moans And shrieks and arm restraints. There was some mingling when the drugs kicked in, You conferring with the already dead While the rest of us stood around Dumb and uncomfortable as wallflowers, Secretly wishing for a chorus Of "The Party's Over," And everybody home By dawn. Toil and Trouble I'm exhausted with your dissatisfactions. The rueful shake of the head over unmatched socks, The endless lectures on food preparation and storage. Well you're not what I expected either bunny, With your mental preening And the stink of Friday night revelries Rising off your body in a fog Of stale whiskey vapor. The children love you and are learning To think me stupid by example. Careful, genius. When we met you thought I had a touch of the hag, (Kabbala in the cupboard, runes on the shelf) And to tell you the truth I'm trying. There's curdled milk in your coffee And I'm cursing our union daily. If we’re patient you’ll pass With no push from me; Stop for a six in a terrible place, With excellent results. The shiv in your belly Will cut the rope from my wrists. Postpartum Mama I put the baby to my breast And wince. This incessant feeding Is going to kill me. I dream Of gliding off the roof Of our little brownstone, Free for the five seconds It takes to make contact With the pavement. This seems so reasonable to me. The child looks more like a life sentence than love. I watch my husband sleep And wish him dead too. The gravity of what we have done Pins me like a sandbag. I can’t move but I can think About suicide; murder; flight. I cradle my son with a horrible sadness. He needs another mother and I Begin a list of possibilities. I will attach them To the nursing pillow, a goodbye note Teeming with mother love and madness. The ink in my pen Is foreign chemical and pure terror. The Damn Prozac isn’t Working Anymore I live in fits and starts. I sleep away the hot Afternoon under a slow fan. At night, I torture myself wide-eyed With my deviant domesticity. My iron is always cold And the kids are a mess. I am a single blotch On this white picket landscape And I care about the Joneses – I am not well. I coma through the daylight hours. I am where I started, With one hand breaking the waves, Waggling for a life-raft and a clear map Of the metropolitan area. I am the raft, The only lifeguard for miles; But I can’t seem to keep that In mind. I am drowning Myself. Greek chorus girls Crowd the bleachers built By my own pretty hands. Resume You’re lucky you chose me. My credentials check out. Ask any woman I’ve been with. This is what I do, This is what I ‘m capable of. I’ll reorder your spice rack, Crate your books for the basement and Much prefer the back of your head When I fuck you. This is what I do. This is what I’m capable of. I’ll look right through you when you cry, Offer my back after nightmares, Leave you alone in hard labor And drink myself blind On your birthday. This is what I do. This is what I’m capable of. But the thing I do best, And in this I have no rival, Is the slow, Sensual, Sucking down Of your soul, your soul, your soul. This is what I do. This is what I’m capable of. Almost Bulimic Oh love the loss of you Is good medicine I want to choke up On a bad day. Our boy lifts his brow, like you, For the pleasure of my laughter. It’s then I sit on my hands To keep my fingers Out of my throat. Asking For It I have been used To seeing myself through The shifting prism of you. Oh the dirty distortions Disguised as illuminations. Here, I am the fat lady, My mouth ringed in chocolate. There, a shrill and grasping crone, Sharp to the touch. And look over there, A blinking changeling, Head big as a melon, Waiting to swallow you whole. When did it become easier To depend on your vision Instead of my own? Nice seeing-eye doggie. I won’t cross myself Against the light Into oncoming traffic. You, Princie, Can do it for me. Take it From Me You sing, he sings. He won’t be happy Until you’re silent. Today human kindness Moves me to warnings. Tomorrow I’ll go back To calling you “Bitch.” Honey, he’s already got you In the back of the band. Soon he won’t smile at you Unless you’re seated At a sideline table, With your lighter in the air. I barely escaped with myself. If you’re truly good and quiet, He might marry you too. Tell your sisters to wear black. The Danger of Dating the Newly Divorced My boyfriend says “Where did you come from?” And I say, “Why honey, I’ve crawled out of hell. Can’t you see? I’m stinking of sulfur And I’ve lost all my hair. You can’t think I’m here intact. Infernos cleanse so indiscriminately. My eyes are seared open now, I see all the time. The fatty flesh men fed on Has melted down To beautiful bone. When touched, I rattle. It keeps me awake. The bad news is my heart, The shrunken thing’s smoldering And won’t conscience company It can’t trust. Its judgement is terrible. It makes mistakes. It moves me to menace men Who mean me no harm. I lifted this pitchfork Before I ascended and I wield it with no good sense. Get out of the way love. I’m not to be trusted. Night Drive I want to get into the car And drive on and on in the dark Making for Santa Fe or New Orleans, Anywhere but this house, this cape of claims With its goose down, gimme’s and get me nows. I am not Rapunzel. I’ve no wish To be climbed like Everest And then obligated to provide A cool drink, a warm bath To the usurpers of my solitude. In the car there is only the steering wheel, The gas and the brake To operate at will. I have been alone, but not alone enough. The children will have to go elsewhere For mother care, and adequate feedings. I will live on roadside apple pie and night air. I will grow like Night Shade; Shed my size and tower Into the open sky with stars. I will steal a convertible And live lush on the lam. Mother will always be somebody else: The woman just in the corner Of my sped up vision, Shushing a backseat of brats In a different lane; A woman who bears No resemblance to me. Religious Concerns The tub toys are thrown in As a sign of faith. Stay warm water Until the fill line is met. We will get on with our days, Scrubbed, dry and dressed. The lights will stay lit And the boiler sing on until Spring. Oh Kali, credit my incantations; Coax smiles from the kids And stock my fridge With bologna and peaches. Let the check Be in the morning mail. If They Take the Kids Away From Me, Maybe I’ll Sleep the Night I am so tired I can’t keep up. The food, the drink, the crumbs To be swept from the broken linoleum. “Read me a story; no I won’t eat Bananas; pull the car Over and get the fruit Out of my lunchbox before I scream loud enough to Break your eardrums!” The creditor will take my check Over the phone, payable tomorrow And I’m too frightened To listen to my recorded balance. The eye twitch that started When the Egyptian gunman sprayed Bullets at the El Al gate, Shows up now At the slightest provocation: Bee’s nest in the shed, Railroad Ties rotting and a danger. The cat with the gash In its head is on its own And mommy cannot make a third For Candyland. She’s asleep baby darlings, Face to the back of the couch Every single goddamned day of the week. Bravado “They’re all messed up…” Police officer in “Night of the Living Dead” I am wandering around the house Like a wounded animal. I’m eyeing the merlot And it’s only nine a.m. My habitat’s been knocked flat; My familiars picked off Like ducks in a shooting gallery. Bang. Bang. Bang. Someone’s an excellent shot. Father, mother, marriage And Joyce in the tower; Four dead ducks in a row. I flip the bird to the carnival crack-shot, “Can’t catch me you bastard.” Then somebody backs over The Pekinese across the street. Wailing over a dead dog, I see I’m on my knees; A game bird, Down and full of buckshot Like everybody else. Selective Vision These are my children, and This is my life. Rain against the picture window, The little one asleep On the couch with a fever. There are no men cartwheeling From one hundred stories up, No acrid wind in the trees. My boy cuts catalog pictures For an alphabet book, looks For his glue stick. I warm Coffee in the microwave. There are no maps with escape routes Stowed in the car, no Discussion of anthrax saved On my home computer. A tower of laundry Obscures what's down the pike. I buy Halloween costumes and methodically repeat, "These Are my children and This is my life." Hope Does Not Spring Eternal I am on the phone. I have a list. I won’t Take busy signals For answers. Saint Vincent’s, Cabrini, anything Downtown. Then Uptown. Then Jersey. Rumor had it They shipped people there, Legions of people Who couldn’t remember Their names. Sympathetic admitting clerks Check their own lists For me. “No one By that name…NO ONE BY THAT NAME… Did you call The Red Cross?” It takes me Three days to stop Dialing. To throw Away the list; go Down to the church; Get down On my knees. On the North Fork and Forgetting Ah, Spring in New York. Today the buildings are all Where they should be, And flowers fill the car. I've got a lungful of lilac And the sky is 9/11 blue. Tonight I will sleep In a room with pansy borders and In the morning, walk the Peconic, Breath in, breath out; Watch gulls arc overhead Instead of an endless loop Of plate glass raining From a perfectly clear sky. Resistance is Futile Everybody’s dead here At the house I grew up in. Well almost; the daughter Has nearly caught up. I dared Not to miss you and Look at the results. Today the thermometer won’t rise Above freezing and I’m digging Through your ugly colonial Bureau for that old black one-piece, To put on for the backyard. How long will it take To stop my heart, cease The little crystalline puffs From rising above My blue lips? Out here By the birdbath, the struggle To be something other Than dutiful is coming To an end. In heaven All will be as it should be; I will jester on my cloud Between the two of you; Little clown; master distracter; I know my place and I’m back In it. Reclining flat On a ratty towel I wait To pick up where we left Off; forgive, forgive My foray away, This ill-starred stretch Toward the gears. I will not switch, I’m At your disposal, No more dancing For myself In front of the mirror. Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Oh god, dear god. It’s good to be Back home. Hard Work Labor catches you struggling Against the sweat it extracts that You’re stone sure you can’t pay. And then the joy of doing Gets inside your cells and You wonder how you ever lived At rest. Even the final push That sends the baby Out from the salt sea of your belly Tears from you a song of satori, Indivisible from the suffering. It’s a Girl! Before I gave birth, I dreamed daughter as double, Hothouse strawberry in a delicate bowl. A December night brought Katie strong and fierce. Blazing, inedible berry On a holly branch; Jewel of a raspberry in a sticker thicket. She is nobody’s dessert, and Too wild to be waked in china. I have loved her so hard My heart has burst into forest: Moonseed, Sumac, and Mistletoe. Like Kate I grow on now Not for consumption. Single Mother vs. Boy From a Broken Home Boy we battle. You want me At arm’s length And then so close I cannot breath Easy; sweet boy With eyes like mine I inhale your clean scalp When your back is turned And sleep in your room When you’re away. Too much loss, broken Bones and homework This year. My god, You’re only six. I want you To laugh in your sleep Like you did Before the ground shifted Underneath us. I want The toxic words That fly thick Through the honey Of our first years In this house To mean nothing In light of the love; In the face Of the love That dipped down And fluttered our hair Late this afternoon Over the plastic chess set On our new front steps. No Clemency I dredge up all you’ve done, An army to surround the piece of me That remembers when you called Me gorgeous and meant it. Oh How you meant it That night on the Bowery Stumbling on slick sidewalks Toward a party. Later you presented me To your dangerous friend in the Peruvian hat As if I were Helen, Or Guinevere or Juliet. There was snow in your hair And your glasses were wet. I knew you would kiss me in the elevator. I linger a little Before giving the go-ahead. I’m only human after all. The prisoner’s diaphanous skirt Flutters in the wind. She’s lovely, but she’s got to go. I know the enemy when I see it, And after ten long years I know where my duty lies. Worship I have rented an office Over a stationary store, Near the railroad tracks. The walls are the blush and blue Of early dawn; The floor is a polished honey lozenge. Through the window, plain sky. A deep plum robe hangs on a peg by the door. I shake off my shoes in respect When I enter, Slip on the royal wrap and Sit at my mac, reverent. I bow my head Before the musical chord Indicating startup. Spirit willing, sacred text follows. Muse When I start to succumb To the seduction of being clever, I drag myself back to the fire Where the robed crone sits Warming her hands while The hot wind blows wave and roar Through her tangled hair And open mouth. Vision And flame punctuate The black, black plain. New Mexican Lesson I went to the Tsankawe National Park For inspiration And my muse laughed so hard She split her sides and Out flew a glossy crow. It talked, of course, This bird dug into my shoulder. “Take in all the mountains you want Sweetie. Gulp down the piney blue air; Then go home And write what you know: A field so black You can’t see two feet In front of you. And something awake and hungry Hidden in the trees.”