Patchwork

I am a broken mother
born of a broken mother
born of a broken mother
trying to pull intact pieces
from the aftermath of motherhood –
some that I inherited
some that are borrowed from someone else’s house
some of my own fabrication –
and stitch together a mother
and give her to myself.

For Immediate Release:

It has been determined that women owe it to Precisely No One to look younger than their chronological age. The removal of this obligation extends to all relationships, including those they have with themselves, their partners, colleagues, random strangers, The People Of The Internet, and Friends With Whom They Went To High School.

Furthermore, it has been determined that, should a woman wish to appear younger than she currently does, she is permitted to take measures to do so. This permission extends to any creams, lotions, lasers, injectables, surgeries, enchantments, and blood oaths in which she may wish to engage. It is not permitted for a woman (or any person) to force unwilling parties to engage in said treatments, however it has been determined that if a woman is the sole proprietor of her face, she may do with it Whatever the Actual Hell she shall choose.

Consequently, if a woman has done any of the aforementioned procedures, it is no longer a criminal offense for her to look as if that is the case. It so follows that anyone who has “frozen face,” “pillow face,” “duck face,” or any other manner of face bearing evidence of alteration shall not be tried in the court of public opinion but shall instead be free to go about her Damn Business.

It is now also deemed permissible for women to look younger than their chronological age owing to natural causes including genetics, early avoidance of sun exposure, and sufficient quantities of melanin. As such, it is no longer necessary to resent these women or to speculate as to the degree to which they have engaged in anti-aging treatments. This recommendation stems primarily from this activity having been deemed a deeply uninteresting use of that most finite resource: time. 

It is recommended that the term “aging gracefully” be retired in favour of “aging – what a motherfucking privilege.”

Inasmuch as none of these measures is in service of the Patriarchy, their successful implementation shall depend almost exclusively upon early adoption by All Women. Inasmuch as All Women have heretofore been categorically unable to satisfy a complex and mutually exclusive set of standards with regard to their physical appearance in the process of aging, it is anticipated that All Women will flourish upon gaining access to A Fucking Break.

To All My Sisters

I’m sorry for the time I spent looking for your flaws
when all I ever needed was to bask in your glory.
I’m sorry it took me so long to understand that there is
enough special to go around.
That, in fact, every last one of us is a motherfucking masterpiece.
That we’re sequoias – mighty, heavy and sprawling with interlocking roots
such that when one of us is nourished
we all grow strong.

I’m sorry I didn’t know that pain is not a contest. 
That there has been enough of that to go around.
That it’s not the severity of the wound that makes it important.
It’s the mere fact that you are wounded, and you are important. 
And that when we all tend gently to your hurt
it teaches me that all my own little pain-filled places 
are also worthy of love.

I’m sorry I didn’t see the lies in the stories I was told
about ugly stepsisters and evil cheerleaders.
I’m sorry I thought you had to lose for me to win.

To all of you young ones who dare to know your power,
I’m sorry for pushing onto you the judgment I was served.
To all of you vibrant ones whose magic I begrudged,
I repent.
You see, I believed a lie that I didn’t have enough of my own.
Ha. We are dripping in it. Drowning in it.
As many shades and textures of it as there are sisters.

a call for help in a time of deconstruction

God who holds everything together
by whom molecules bind and firing neurons form thoughts
Inventor of toddler snuggles and loving glances
by whom rocks banging together can result in
spring thaws
the living sound of water escaping snow under a late february sun
of birds, giddy with newness,
in competition for the most weightless song
incursions of purple into a wasteland of white
as the crocuses sense that something is coming
it’s coming
there’s snow on the ground but we know that it’s coming and you can’t tell us otherwise

God by whom I have been seen
God who has met me
on the floor of that apartment
on the way to that hospital
who has not required of me
perfect dogma
who has only asked me to accept comfort and to know peace
who at times when there was no floor
has told me that I would not fall forever
who has shown me that
even when it is not alright
somehow still I am alright

I’ll call you by the names I know
but I do not expect the name that I call matters
as much as that I call
and ask for a floor
just, at some point, a floor
and that when I land I would not be alone