Confessions of a Cover(ed) Girl

When I don't
wear makeup,
I look like
a baby opossum --
white and pink
with small, beady eyes
and soft, fuzzy skin.

NOTE: See the updated version of this poem here.

Making Up My Mind

When I don't wear makeup,
I feel like I'm disappointing
my family, community and society
because I look "prettier"
with makeup.
I feel like I'm not
"living up to my full potential"
or representing my family,
my community
or matriarchy "well."

But I do not exist
to achieve people's approval.
I exist because
I have a life to live --
one life, one shot,
mine.

I do not owe the world
"beauty."
I do not owe society
"pretty."
I do not exist to make
everyone else feel comfortable,
contented, or complimented.

Still, giving myself permission to
not look "my best" is
challenging for a perfectionist.

News flash to self:
I do not owe the world
"perfect."

Perhaps somehow, somewhere
in the recesses of my psyche,
I believe that I am more
valuable, more lovable, more
acceptable
if I am as "pretty"
or as "perfect"
as I can be.

Perhaps I have been
poisoned by the patriarchal preconception
(and the people who have practiced and propagated it)
that women are worthy of
acceptance, admiration, appreciation, approval, and affection
only when they are "pleasing" to the eye.

Dear Whippoorwill Willy

If I had wanted to be serenaded by your
domineering whistle during my lunch hour --
with your fortissimo flourishes and fanciful finesse,
your boisterous bellows and troubling treble --
I would have specifically requested a private performance or
purchased your spirited show on CD or DVD or
attended a rousing public recital or
elected to allow you to commandeer my ears,
my mental respite and my personal space.
I would not have sat down in the corner of a public cafeteria
with a book and a meal alone, hoping for a bit of solitude
in the middle of a hectic, harried day.

Women's Work 2015

I have been invited to present my poetry at the ninth annual Women's Work festival on May 10th. Stay tuned for more details!

Happy National Library Week! Exhibit E:

In celebration of National Library Week, I have posted a book-related piece each workday this week. 

In This Wow

Have you ever
held a book
in your hands
that felt so right?
A book that
felt perfect,
and supple
and soft, but
firm in all the right places?
A book that
belongs
in your hands
at this moment;
at this time?
A book that
was written
years ago
but was meant
for you
right here; right now?
A book that,
in this moment,
makes time and space
make sense
in this place,
in this moment,
in this now?

Happy National Library Week! Exhibit D:

In celebration of National Library Week, I will post a book-related piece each workday this week.  Today, a haiku:

Happiness is a
personal library stocked
with books yet unread.

Happy National Library Week! Exhibit C:

In celebration of National Library Week, I plan to post a book-related piece each workday this week.  Today, a haiku:

excited to finish the book;
sad to see it
end

Happy National Library Week! Exhibit B:

In celebration of National Library Week, I plan to post a book-related piece each workday this week.  Today, a haiku:

first sniff:
got makeup on the
pages of my new book

Happy National Library Week! Exhibit A:

In celebration of National Library Week, I plan to post a book-related poem each workday this week. 

Between the Lines and Me

I like to hold books and
magazines and CD booklets
in my hands. Electronic
versions don't allow
for handling and care
and communion between
the author, the pages,
the words and the reader.

I like to live in a book --
to touch and participate,
to make notes in the margins,
to bravo, to question, to laugh.
There is a quiet exchange
between the lines and me,
a silent interaction (though
sometimes I laugh out loud
or sigh with great delight).

Every new book is a
literary cornucopia --
full of wit, mystery,
inspiration, wisdom --
a word awaiting, a
new world to discover,
to experience, to embrace,
a friend to keep on the
shelf of my heart.

Mornings Are Such a Drag

By the time I arrive at the office,
I am exhausted.
I have already been awake for several hours,
the bulk of which I have spent beautifying myself:
showering, shampooing, shaving, conditioning,
applying styling foam to my hair while it's wet,
and then tending to my face --
moisturizer, base, blush,
tweezers, brow brush,
mascara, three shades of eyeshadow,
eyeliner, brow pencil, lip moisturizer
and, finally, three shades of lipstick.
Then for the home stretch:
blow-drying my hair upside down,
blow-drying my hair straight (right side up),
followed by styling with smoothing fluid,
and sealing the deal with hairspray.

It's like an art or science fair project
that you do every morning
before you can get to your
actual day.
I feel like a drag queen,
each day applying makeup
and hair and jewelry
in an effort to appear as an alternate version of myself --
a more refined and beautiful version of myself.
Although, unlike a drag queen,
all of this work makes me tired and irritated,
not excited and exhilarated.

Sticky Fingers: Like a Kid in a Candy Store

Dear Co-worker:

My candy dish is a gesture of goodwill -- meant to be
visited a couple of times during the workday in moderation --
not a vehicle by which to fill your child's entire Easter basket.

Signed,

Your Supposed Sugar Mommy

Poached by an Egg

Finished the last of
the hard-boiled eggs
this morning and
stabbed my thumb --
the shell shards
actually drawing blood.
I never knew
Easter eggs could
be so violent.

(I see hints of my)

I see hints of my
grandfather's hand in my own
shadow this morning.