consuelacooks

cooking, poetry, and unapologetic intense moments in a life

Tag: feelings

Coke cans and Swiss cake rolls

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When I was six I decided to run.
So I made a plan  for a decent getaway.
Saint Peter’s uniform was really more of a jumper.
A plaid v stemming from my waist and covering my shoulders.
I had not yet mastered buttons,so no undershirt was applied.
I could not reach the sock drawer, and did not yet
know how to tie more than one criss-cross
So shoes were moot too, I was sure.
I retrieved a hefty bag from under the sink,
and kissed each stuffed animal as I plunged them into the plastic.
I went to the soda drawer, figuring I would need at least a six pack
I had miles to go after all, and a new life to start.
It was heavy, and I knew it. I packed light after that–
only pringles and some swiss cake rolls.

It was a sad thought, leaving everyhting I’d ever known,
But we are all writing our own book, and I knew
I couldn’t take this for much longer.
Who could?

I said goodbye to my Mother’s door. I would miss her.
I could hear him snoring off the Scotch, still.
I thought of Christmas coming, and maybe I would miss presents.
I welled up at this, but knew I had to follow through.

Into the night I went. No shoes, no shirt, and a Catholic School jumper.
My hefty bag of supplies to carry me into the new world.
I stepped out into the hot Ybor night, brave.
The humidity licked my face, reminding me of the coming sunrise.

It must have been a couple of hours before Mother found me sleeping
a street over, in a neighbor’s convertible. I had stopped to
momentarily rest, seeing the plush back seat.
My bag ripped when I had to start dragging it, only a few houses away from my own
and gave my mom the trail of stuffed animals, coke cans, and swiss cake rolls
that led her to my oasis.

I didn’t know how many more hefty bags I would fill by 44.
I didn’t know how welcoming a plush oasis felt.
words wash welts and whelping clean away.
And Summer makes it all new again in Memphis.

 

How many synonyms are there for affection?

On a Saturday morning, effortless
We were 18 year-old forty somethings.
unmistakable giggles
stories of bloodsheds and watersheds
bedheads, retreads, some reds and blues and my God
the unsaid, the apparent, the ready the resonance.
The path of the empath, the love swelling scenes of midnights and
florida forlorn kids, pounding those warrior days with
what it took to keep breathing amidst the certain uncertainties that
left us breathless, those crazy albatross pains
the colic of adolescence, the way we wove
our secrets into each day
and let them set with humid sun, burning in
shades of city and wreck.

Our sides were burning with want, all of us.
All we knew was heat and water, spaceships and tree swings.
We were bred for this. This. This
shade of indigo. some desire of the unmapped, the
Chartless seduction submerged in the
sweetest trust of childhood playfellows
now with the most minute of wrinkle lines.
the new breath of honey
A lexis of kisses, lost loves,
car payments and some self-examination:
really the only true distance, you know?
I can’t explain the pull, I don’t need to.
The propulsion, palpable, makes it easy.
The conversation, easier.
The same eyes, mouth, and laugh
The history of us, the heart journey to Mercury,
Mars, Africa, Eden, Abyss of
trying to figure the fucking thing out.
the solid ground under our feet we can stand on
hearing a familiar voice, (one I adore)
without losing  balance
without trying to qualify why we find it comfortable to stand still.
why it’s enough to understand the shape of your hand
and remember it in mine while singing together
on some stage at 16 feeling our feet under us, even then.
Even then, even now, the ease is all.
The curiosity is filling the cat.
Willing travel, and a feeling of flutters.
A thought of a what-if-butterfly kiss
a hand solidly resting on the low of my back.
a slow dance in some music hall, or a walk in the rain.
or maybe, just a hunt of Memphis Town, and a friendly tour guide.
I really don’t have any idea what this urge is.
I’m not going to question. I’m not going to shove it down.

The clearest expectation for us all now is to stay alive until we don’t, and find each others’ eyes. We find the hand and hold it tight for dear life, because by God, it’s time. We laugh and eat days and nights, and sing songs loud.

All else is time, and all is all.
And it’s short, you know?
how we touch, how we hide, where we can get to, and where we are to go.
the thing is, mostly of most,
to admire someone and wish them with you
is to see the underside of the Gods.
The places they secret away for the most amorous and best mortals
The ones who will carry on the work of
loving like they did, the Gods,
The demigods. The deities, The Titans, the giants, and the poets.
With Athenian chastity,
The patience of Daphnis and Chloe, waiting for the storm, wishing to be whole
Writing us, sans plot
Charting the path with Artemis-like precision,
(Catch and release, catch and release)
We imagine the Aphrodite in us, sweet friend.
Thirty years seem to speak volumes in the silence.

Or perhaps just a day, a breath of what it feels to be home.
laying on that stage.
staring up, looking at our broken lights,
wishing we were more in control of our life, our bodies
wishing for a slower dance, another field trip
another bus ride, another chance to sing songs
in the chorus room at lunch.

Maybe we are just laying on the stage again.
Humming songs in seraphic harmony
Getting those goosebumps we did
When we knew that our sounds,
mine and yours,
made us more immortal than any God
more beautiful than a Magnolia,
bursting in wet bloom.
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