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K ` a x  5 W n    2 P Q R S T U V W X Y Z [ \ ] ^ _ ` a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t B ~  , [  = L a b   - A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z [ \ ] ^ _ ` a b c d e f g h i j k  & 4 5 6 7 8 9 : ; < = > ? @ A B C D E F G H I J K  y  C \  # F e f  ( ) F W h    - 6 7 ; f   M   < a 3 u         G * + = V d v w % & 8 P e 3 X ¤ µ   " 6 A S T U V W X Y Z [ \ ] ^ _ ` a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q × ø l   Q   8 F  &zBzBzB{B BBBBBB B$ B( B+B/B3B7B;B=B?BCBGBK:BO8BS8BVBZXB^XBbDBf1Cj CnCrC uCyC}CCwC PfC$C(C,DC0C4C8C<C@CCCDHHH.Hz CLOSER TO DYING poems from the fiftieth year Marion Cohen The only thing thats trying: Im closer to dying. from Thirty One Some of these poems have appeared in: Event, Philadelphia Poets, Dot Dot Dot, Facets, Elixir The inside of the babys mouth started out lovely soft, pink all one piece just wet enough just smooth enough. His gums and tongue helped his smile. But then came the daggers slow, sure. And perfectly aimed because from within. We all spend our childhoods picking them out. It spoils our play. It spoils our love. And they soon come back twice the size. We spend our adulthoods at it again. We twist, we turn. We squint, we squirm. A dentist could do it but wont. That first midnight that front carseat that first time we said I love you and then said You DO mean get married and everything...? and we said yes and he became my you. Thats when I was rescued thats when I was safe thats when I thought Its wonderful, its settled and it was for a very long time. Maybe dying is getting settled. The kind of settled like 11:00 P.M. The kind of settled when someone puts a firm hand on your arm and guides you across the street in a fatherly or European way. The kind of settled where you dont have to take any more exams or jobs or look your most characteristic. On the other hand, maybe death is un-settled again. Flung to the slime. No more cars, no more eyes. Youre you-less, yes-less embedded in pure German-E-three a different E-three for each of us but all of them thick. Space exists, is three-dimensional, and canNOT be filled. There is no such thing as empty. There is no such thing as filled. When my parents rescued me from Girl Scout Camp where the air had been thick where going to bed had been permission to breathe and waking had been the nightmare where there had been too many somethings too many someones and my diary was far far away when I had finally finished off those two weeks it was not my mothers arms I thrilled to nor her hair, nor her face only being in the same car. She was not my shepherd, she was my pasture. I was not her flock but I grazed around her. She was not my you only an extremely massive it. Maybe death is regimented. Maybe the air is thick and yellow with no such thing as sleep. Maybe dying is being pulled by the feet a breech-death into something, some cylinder some resounding cylinder. Maybe death is like life compresed life, too much life. Maybe death is a campfire, a canoe trip swimming lessons nature hikes and no arts and crafts. Maybe death is pure peer group. No mother. No daughter. No you. No me. And love as conditional as money and sex. Maybe death is a wall and the dead are wallflowers. And the devils are the boys and theyll recognize me. When I was very little I stared down a hole. It was not a death hole. It was more like a birth hole. Even the surface was dark. It was brimming with ink. A can of night. Not slimy, not bubbling only wet and dark. Maybe death is a can and you fall into it and someone slams on the lid and its down a cellar someone elses cellar. Maybe millions of years go by then someone opens the can someone with a fork. Maybe death is being canned or gradually, gradually becoming un-fresh. A month before the wedding I dreamt I died. Death was a woman and she wound up liking me best. In fact, she fell in love with me, and I her. The love felt wam and meaningful the kind of love I approved of the kind of love I liked. We closed our eyes; we sank into the clouds. She leaned on me and cried. But then things soured. For example, she caught me gazing clapped her hands in my eyes. (A penny for your thoughts.) Then things actually spoiled. There were quarrels at the dressing table. Why do you always have to be so morbid? Cant we ever just go out for a good time. Death, even death, was not enough. Death, even death, did not work out.  In Paris he went to the Louvre. I went to a thrift store. By the time I met him the Louve had closed. I had not missed him but I missed the Louve. I had not missed him but I miss him now. Maybe death is an empty bus stop. A broken phone booth. A diagonal walk in a wide grey street when the only sounds are sirens and the only motions are sudden. Maybe death is being where youre not supposed to be. Maybe death is all your fault. And now he lies stiff. Not dead, just stiff. Chronically, progressively, incurably stiff. Range of motion on his left arm takes a minute. Range of motion on his right arm takes five minutes. Move my legs apart. Bend me forward. Scratch the right side of my nose. There is no point is saying please. He is not yet bed-ridden. Only chair-ridden. But hes in bed right now. And Im not. Anyway, paralyzed means stiff. Paralyzed means locked. Paralyzed means WE cant move him, either. Maybe dying is like being arrested. And they dont give you even a second of orientation. Maybe they clap your feet, right off, onto the nails. Or they impale you on a skewer half a second before half a second after two of the others. On the other hand, maybe dying is like going to the doctor. Maybe theres a receptionist and a waiting room. Also, maybe theres the assistant. And she explains the procedure, holds your hand, shows you diagrams. Yes, maybe she tells you first what theyre going to do.  I know I can die because I have dead. I know I can die because I had general anesthesia. I know I can die because my brain is in my head. Because, although it feels as thought thoughts are a corollary of existence actually they come out of that squooshing. Also, though it feels as though seeing comes from things to be seen actually it comes from tiny convex lenses in our heads working just right. Maybe there is only seeing and nothing to be seen. Maybe there is only thinking and nothing to be thought. And maybe dying is losing that seeing and losing that thinking losing all you thought you had but finding your dead. Because Grandpas hand shook and his voice rasped Rozzy and I never ran to him. But he played pishe-pashe and penokle and could make all fifty-two fly like geese from his right to his left. And that earned him half an hour with us at the table fifteen minutes on the couch maybe even ten seconds on his lap. it took days to remember the nightmare that had brought my parents to my side. I had been there, just there and all of a sudden had appeared a giant spot. I called it a spot even though it had been big. It had hung vertical on a screen having been splashed there first. It was a scribble-scrabble, a carnival full of dense colors some of them red. It was that same spot 30 years later four weeks into that pregnancy. They called it spotting because it needed only one pad. Dying ALWAYS leaves a spot. A spot that doesnt go away. And we have the nightmare before we remember it. Yes, it took several days to remember that nightmare. And it took thirty years to make it come true. An hour after we were given here we decided to decide we didnt like her. So first Rozzy then me smashed her down the stairs then we took turns grabbing her bottom and banging her top against the kitchen table corner and then we brought her outside where Frances Shapiro tore out her hair five strands at a time Margaret Moffit gave her left arm thirteen twists in the same direction Karne Greenwald pulled on her rubber band til it wouldnt pull back and David Marion from across the street got out his pen-kife and saws apart three of her stuck-together toes. Susan didnt cry not even tears in the corners not even when Mary ann Ginzberg blew hot breath into her hole-less nostrils not even when Paula Pitchell, the neighborhood goody-goody, lay her on the driveway and jumped rope on her not even when our mascot, Lil Peeps, licked each cheek and dribbed chewed up mud into her hard little mouth not even when Bobby Allen from next door shouted two inches from her face, Serves ya right, ya bad Susan and now even when we eventually tired of her and dropped the rest of her into one of the big side-yard cans. I glanced a second longer and it was true, she wasnt crying. Only her mouth assymmetric her eyes bigger than Id thought and her one arm dangling, the other sticking up out the edge. There she lay, the grandmother of my children including the one who had died and the one about to be born. I paced her half of the room then I leaned on the rail and stared at that curtain beyond which heaved her roommate with a story opposite but equal to hers. They had left me alone with her. Her mouth was so small. They were leaving me alone with her. Her whole body was so small. And she couldnt talk. Her voice was estranged from her brain. She couldnt write, either. Only her left side twitched. I leaned into the bed as though planning an attack. But I had no attack. And I had no plan. No, I didnt know what to do. The nurse came in to check her pulse. He stook between us, intercepting a fight. Then he left us alone again. He was so sweet but he left us alone. Her face was so small. Her feet were so big. Her left leg shifted and I trembled like in her kitchen doing her dishes. They left me alone so I could say something. But whatever Id say, she wouldnt answer. Shed just lie there, fenced in with her little-ness and her big-ness and her dry-ness and if what I said was wrong, shed get better. She was drooling. The corners of her mouth were filling in. I was afraid the IV would re-aim and sizzle into me. True, her face was facing and she might have been smiling at my belly and it might have been a settling-something smile. It had the firmness of a clasp. But still, that deathbed just didnt work out. Like our birthbed it was far too long. I should at least have placed her hand on my belly. I should at least have sung her some Mozart. Oh Ma, Im so sorry. I was no good at your deathbed. And I never got any better. Im sorry I was such a bad girl. And then they came back. They were finished leaving us alone. They were back and they looked. They were back and they expected. And I smiled the Mona Lisa smile and nodded the Mona Lisa nod and hoped and hoped they didnt know. Maybe death is a bad mood. Maybe death is my mother. Maybe death is my mothers womb. Id be scared. Like a virgin on her wedding night. Shed be so small. Id be so big. And I breathe now, maybe bad breath. I have teeth now, and bitten nails. Also, theres something Ive forgotten. Or something Id be forbidden. I need my notebook, I need my toothbrush. Theres something left behind and shes in a bad mood. The baby in the mirror wobbled and smiled. The baby outside the mirror giggled and cooed. I wondered whether they knew each other. I wondered whether they liked each other. I hoped they werent falling in love with each other. And what did he think of his other mother? Which one did he want holding which him? And which on did he like better? Did he miss the other after the one had walked away? Did he think it perfectly reasonable, one mother being in two places? Did he know it was two places? Had he known all along, that every object consists of two equal and opposite parts? We always say THE mirror. Never A mirror. We know theyre all the same. We know theyre co-planar as one as windows on a single wall. But the babies smiled and coored. They giggled and goggled. It was as exciting as a trip to the movies or the zoo. Except, one day I took him there and they DIDNT smile and coo. Didnt cry or tremble either. Just sort of puckered and smirked then sported that look and turned the other way. Aunt Helen rose from her deathbed checked out of the deathroom galavanted about to set her house in order. A week later she lay her down to a deathbed not quite her own. I hope I dont interrupt my deathbed to get up or even prop myself up. I hope I dont miss my deathbed. I hope I dont wind up writing about the wrong deathbed. I hope I dont give up my deathbed for a deathbed poem. A grave once opened for me. It was so big, so wide. It was my parents cript, a whole house and she whom they were lowering was twenty inches six pounds, fourteen ounces, small enough to have fit inside me. There was plenty of room. I could have jumped in. I could, like Aida have sneaked in. Instead I stared. Like when I was little into that tall tall inkwell. As long as it existed as long as it was a hole as long as they were lowering I stared in. I held out my arms and I cried tears that covered me tears that chapped me tears that dried me. I stared in then I staed out then I lumbered away. Dreams after 40: Instead of flying theres a kind of sliding and numerous dull turns all of them right. The turns go from light to dark then back to light though its not clear when. Usually its some factory. In fact, you might be the product being manufactured. On special occasions, though, its a mere garage. In any case theres a predetermined circuit which will never cease although there is one place to which you are most often returned. And so you slide or are slid quick as gravity will allow and trying to weight in heavier. You slip and slide with determination as though actually going somewhere other than down. When I was pregnant with the special child and post-partum with the dead baby we had a Halloween party. The whole family got down on the floor and drew pictures. I made the Ghost Family. Pape Ghost, Mama ghost, Baby Ghost and, under the bulge in Mama Ghosts sheet, Widdle Biddy Fetus Ghost, smiling and spiralling. Yes, angels can have babies and so can ghosts. Life and death in the same cubic foot. And what grows is the life. What comes out is the life. Deathbed chant: You cant have me, you cant get me, you might get my body but you wont get my soul. The dead dont laugh, the dead dont cry, the dead dont care -- oh yeah, try ME. Laugh, cry, care, remember. Laugh, cry, care, remember. You wont get them. I wont let you. Laughcrycareremember, laughcrycareremember, laughcrycareremember, laughcrycare -- Now, what was that again? If Im healthy enough to be nursing a baby I must be healthy. If Im young enough to be nursing a baby I must be young. If Im alive enough to be nursing a baby I must be alive. I am closer to dying but not farther from living. I probably wont be 50 and pregnant but Ill be 50 and lactating. I will certainly be 50 and home-schooling. And I am so grateful, so thrilled. I am just so excited. I have so much. It suddenly occurs to me not even during my period not even after childbirth can I be free of the fear of bleeding. I could find, in my underwear, not only strange sizes but strange shapes. I could bleed perfect squares or equilateral triangles. Or always the same letter. Or always the same word. I could bleed complex numbers or functions or equations. I could bleed three-dimensional. Not only circles but spheres. Not only squares but cubes. And not only clots but tables and chairs not only chairs but wheelchairs not only tables but operating tables what would the doctor say if I told her I was bleeding Magrittes Threatening Weather? What if I told her I was bleeding not only tampons from my 20s and diaphragms from my 30s but speculums and endometrical Pap smears from my 40s? What if all the things that were done to me start coming out? Yes, even during red days I am not safe. Even in red underwar I am not free from fears of green. How the left foot, that Febrary, tended the right. How the left foot had become the right foots keeper. How it hovered outside the cage, sniffing and baying. How it rubbed against the right foots toes. How it arranged the quilt around it. How it lifted the right leg up. How it got under it and rocked. How it bore the weight of that cast. But mostly, how it sniffed and bayed like a monkey at her stillborn or like a monkey and her liveborn in that human experiment separated by a wire mesh or glass wall. THIS wall had the worst of both worlds. Opaque like wire and ubiquitous like glass. The left foot could neither see nor touch the right. All it could do was remember it was there. Maybe you dont go to the flames right away. Maybe they marinade you first a pot of oil, prickles of spice turn and brush you a few centuries. I wouldnt feel those centuries. Id simply awaken to that crackling. What?! Id protest. But I just went thrifting yesterday. Or I just nursed Devin an hour ago. No one would be moved. No one would be impressed. No one would care how surprised I was. Id be rosy with vinegar bristling with garlic. And it would be time. Children, I once wrote, do not always look cute when they sleep. But Devins still a dewdrop. Devins still a Binky. Devins mouth does not hang down. Devins nose does not grow large. And the word he forms from sleep is not help but Batman. Children, I wrote, grow at night. But Devin grows by day. Dev, at night, is in remission. Dev, at least at night, is stable. His fist is a warm stone. His back is a warm rock. And his arms are rounded as though waiting to be hugged. To think that I once looked so totally different. To think I will one day look partially different. Yes, I say, but my size will remain. And color. And shape. My approximate shape. But texture, condition... scant guarantee. And my voice, surely not first soprano. But hair, my long hair may I keep my long hair? Wraith, true dried-up seaweed grape-stems trying to pass through the disposall but may I keep that hair and may I keep it long? And my womb, my womb my well-used womb I cant get cancer of the hair, may I also not get cancer of the womb? Also, my hair cant bleed, may my womb also not bleed? And hormones? May I keep some hormones? So, even if I dont keep my mind I can keep at least something. So at least, when I read over my Devin-poems Ill understand some of them. And so what I babble if not that dewdrop mouth if not that rosewater skin at least the fuss and the fury yes, so what I babble if not politically correct will be personally correct so at least Ill babble the correct fuss and fury the tenderness the necessary and sufficient things. The New York Times says there are very few sixty-year-old left- handed people. Yes lefties, it claims, have a lower life-expectancy. That neurological deviation will be the end of them. And I sit here and reassure myself: There are old stutterers. Old nail-biters. Old tooth-pokers. Old masters of the short proof. Old women with post-partum fetishes. These abnormalities have only been the life of me. They will not be the death of me or at least not such a sad and early death. In Incredible People there was a baby seemed normal until the thirtieth day suddenly died. They investigated. It had no brain. But it couldnt have SMILED. And it didnt FLEX. And it didnt look up at its mother with morning-glory eyes. And it didnt breastfeed. No, it couldnt have breastfed. You cant pretend to flex. You cant pretend to breastfeed. There are some deeds some words oh please, there has to be something. The main thing about adult life is things like purses. And when we walk into a room we have to remember what we went in there for. Also, when we walk out of that room we have to think what we can take out while were at it and what room to go into next. And stairs. Were constantly parking things on stairs. That way, on our next trip up we can stoop down for something to take with us (while were at it). When we step into the shower we take off our watches. As we drop off to sleep we memorize where our purses are. Yes, once we become adults our bodies arent constant. Theyre plus or minus x, where x equals purse, watch, ring, Kotex, diaphragm, colostomy bag. We die humanoids. We die keeping track. Our bodies ourselves our purses, our pills keep track of the time keep track of the place. We die checking, we die memorizing. We die wandering the rooms, the halls. We die pulling on, we die flinging off. We die knowing we havent a thing to wear. My cervix is hard. I imagine her metal. Or I think of an eraser. And of a long head a head with more head instead of a hat. And shes closed, closed but good. She has not only closed up shop; she has SOLD the shop. Like Grandma and Grandpa selling their little candy store. I remember that big sad decision . My mother explained but I still didnt understand. And Beauty, the store cat, a manx, no tail. They called her Beauty because she was so ugly. I dont remember Beauty after the store was sold dont remember her around their house not even head bent not even in the other room not even the slow staying-away walk of the kind of cat there solely to catch mice. But MY Beauty isnt being sold with MY shop is not in the head-bent stay-away stage. My hairs might start greying and my skirts might start shortening but Ill still have Beauty, still have Truth. And anyway, Beauty just happened to be the name of that cat.. And she just happened to have not more head instead of a hat but more body, more back instead of a tail. What astounds me is he doesnt seem to care how much smaller Ive become how his head reaches my head his toes reach my knees how his arms have to fold in order for his fingers to hold onto the other one how Im LATE forties now the LATEST forty how my days are dying my months disappearing. He doesnt seem to notice doesnt seem to mind. I solved midlife crisis by giving birth. Im solving menopause by breast-feeding. And can I solve old age by grandchildren? Can I solve death by great-grandchildren? How much will it help? How well will it work? But this is not grieving. I know grieving and this definitely isnt it. This, in fact, is happiness. At the Italian Market I check out my secret freebie bin and its bin-ning with secrets and, again, Im happy. Happy without any nightmarish tint. Happy without any mocking little voice. Happy, just plain happy. Happy the way happy is. And Im happy to be happy. Im so grateful to be not-grieving. My years, my blood, my very life -- all such LITTLE losses. And it feels so good to know I wont ever again have a big loss. Never will my husband will re-diagnosed. Never again will I lose a full-term baby. My mind will never again hurt that much. And Im ever so thrilled to be taking this day. Today I am not old and tired. Today I am sick and tired. Sick with a mouth like a graveyard and little white tombstone teeth each a witness to a different crime. I am sick and tired from the latest crime. Actually, I am tired and sick tired and sick and thinking about feminist politics. If my grandmothers allowed to be oppressed and my mother and my aunt why not I? Why arent I allowed to lie down and take it? Why cant I just be a victim? Why cant I just be blamed? Why cant I just say yes? Why does MY generation have to be the one? Its three months now but instead of weaning the kittens nurse more than ever. Whole afternoons on the bed. Such proximity, such fur! Whole evenings, though, the mother howls. She doesnt know what floor theyre on. She doesnt know what to do. Sometimes, when she finds them again, they all get back on the bed. But other times she merely licks them. They give each other looks then pass to separate ends. And sometimes she seems old. From nursing, even, shell rise and lumber away. She knows its a little weaning. She knows its a little death. And she knows shes bequeathing them to something young. Shes NOT old. This is her FIRST litter. But every creator is older than her creation. Every mother has moments of being old. Dreams approraching 50: Instead of flying and instead of flapping theres a kind of sitting a kind of sailing. Youre a kind of puppet a kind of kite. Youre higher up than you ever dreamed. And you just sit just sail. You form three-fifths a 4 three-fourths a chair. and maybe you steer maybe you command. But youre no Peter Pan. Youre no Wendy. Your feet are in position. Your hands are in your lap. And youre not necessarily thinking-lovely-thoughts. Nor do you believe in fairies. And as for straight-on-til-morning there IS that point, that destination. But its ONLY a point nothing in it. There are no sights, no sounds not even a vapor, not even a hum. Still, you keep on sitting, keep on sailing. Its a GUIDED tour or so you pretend. And you keep on pretending keep on dipping though not with determination and mostly straight ahead. Out of the dark, out of the slimy dark out of the quicksand of the quilt and out of gruesome dreams appear three cat-heads. They come for my awakening or have always been here. I just-love the cat-head shape that solftened circle supporting those two slight-spherical equilateral-triangle ears. I just-love those ear-pairs. Like eye-pairs. or like headlights. The three travel, at first, different roads. But the roads meet or something because first one cat-head is behind the other a shadow of the other then these congruent shapes link soon we have six little deltas nodding and pointing various ways. Liittle nightcaps, little Dutchman a sextet, a serious conversation a serious consultation and deciding yes. This is what happens after you die not right away but after a while. You see these little spirits. They dance for themselves and they dance for you. This is what happens after the universe dies. Kitten-heads sprout, with their ear-pairs first at the ends of various roads then at the one beginning. Yes, this is the solution to entropy. This is the way the world will stabilize not with a bang, not with a whimper but with cat-heads, kitten-heads and kitten-tails delivering the light waving traffic on. Today was the sad day, the day of Tygras spaying. Now shes a woman who used to give birth. Bret says shes crying. Not meowing, but crying. She wobbles, hobbles, wont keep still. Her sides are sucked in, the oppostie of pregnant. And I keep thinking back to that shimmering Christmas hour when she let loose each little rolling ball already licking, already purring happy and smug in this new find. I keep remembering us all standing around under the common ceiling under our separate halos. From new mother to sterile woman in four and a half months. And now shes throwing up. And now shes shaking low. And the kittens not going to her. The kittens not missing her. I keep comparing now to that better then. I keep comparing everything to that one hour. The day after being spayed Tygra rejects her kittens. The hormones changed that quickly and I guess there is nothing else. Memory isnt, habit isnt whatever love is isnt. And throughout the house sounds that hiss, that growl. The growl that says no hope. The growl that says no wish. The growl that just-says-no. But there was one time, one discontinuity. (I know I didnt dream this.) Two-thirds across the room amidst a pile of legos Tygra and Magic met something made them meet some pocket of hormones some hint of habit some kind of memory or maybe some forgetting. Something truncated Tygras growl. And something made them lick. Once, twice a few small circles and then they lumbered on. Maybe sometimes things forget theyve happened. Grown-ups forget theyve grown up. The dead forget theyre dead. Maybe bygones can be bygones especially if there are cat-heads involved ear-pairs triangle-shadows separated wings and then the area between the wings that almosty unbearably errogeneous zone. Scrabble and her mother are primping. Two young tittering women. The larger an umbrella over the smaller. We see paws small and large in that rolling rhythm. Yes, Tygra is showing her daughter how to bathe both herself and another. She is licking first herself, then her daughter and Scrabble does the same first her mother, then her own thinner arms. And now theyre in unison, or almost or maybe its a fugue. They are getting themselves ready for the ball, for the world. Only, we know Scrabble wont. She will never bathe a kitten never lick a kitten never cover a kitten with tongue or paws. Well be preventing that, we HAVE to prevent that well have to do it, well have to have it done. We have the right-to-choose and well choose, weve chosen. Weve made that sad and correct choice. Yes, I know all that you know. But you dont understand, I was bleeding. You dont understand, I was cramping. I was having those after-contractions the kind I love. I was giving the world its favorite color. I was giving the babies their favorite flavor. Yes, my breasts were lowering to meet their mouths. And then that one time there was no mouth to meet. You dont understand, their sweet weights were warming where it hurt. You dont understand, their sweet volumes were filling in my crack. Oh, I know Hitlets mother did it and KK women do it and sixteen percent of wonderful women are not privileged to do it. But you still dont understand. You dont understand. Without hormones will I still know what cute means? Or will everything just be metal? Will everything just be molecules? Will everything splat and stick like a spot? And lingo -- without hormones will I at least know lngo? You know how, with each kid, you acquire little sayings? Three typed pages of them for Elle and Arin. A published book of them for Bret. An ongoing list for Devin and the cats. You know how your teeth get gritted how the rest of you eases how your mouth always has something to do. Do I need hormones to say what I mean? Do I need hormones to mean what I say? Do I need hormones to keep my language? Do I need hormones to keep my citizenship? Is no-hormones a strange land? Is no-hormones a strange sea? A strange tree, in a strange forest making a strange crash? almost 50 and still giggling almost 50 and still job-hunting almost 50 and still no make-up almost 50 and still long hair atmost 50 and still long skirts almost 50 and still welling almost 50 and still pausing almost 50 and still perfecting childhood almost 50 and still perfecting adulthood and starting new collections and keeping old collections and mother of someone who rides on my back Belindas babys flexings under that one-foot blanket. And the way they pull their teeny heads in as though absolute motion were possible. And that forget-me-not dress. Belinda chose that dress to bring her home in. The last time I picked out a girl-coming-home outfit was Kerin. The last time i used a girl-coming-home outfit was Elle. It was lovely to bring home the boys, too. Anyway, I had it, I sure had it. And now Belinda has it. And I HAVE her having it. Having her having it helps me know I had it helps me know for sure helps me know it for even more sure. I lie awake and think how exciting it is that Im sleeping in a different room. Different from yesterday and different from 40 years ago. Its exciting, that I can now sleep with strange shadows and transparent curtains even overhead lights. And its exciting that I could, at a moments notice go sleep in yet another room. Sneezes happen in threes. And phone calls. And sudden deaths. But objects, so far have happened in twos. Especially machines. Juicers, alarm clocks. We own two or zero of every machine. Also, smaller things. Vases, picture frames, one-of-a-kind dishes. And linked arms. Twiddling thumbs. Colons. Quotation marks. Birds and their wings. Everything flits around with a mirror. Or everything has to have its refraction. And now theres the matter of ov-pairs. I ovulate very seldom but always two months in a row. In footsteps, in couples I flutter away. I am Twin Peaks. I am Twin Perks. I determine a straight line. I meet in a point. I am Noahs Ark. I come in two-by-two. I am bringing to safety my twins, myself. I am taking to safety something. Where Im going: I teach Calculus. I play Scrabble. Ive joined a choral group. Ive formed a home-schooling group. And those nights hes with me I prop myself up and hope hell awaken just enough to need me and not enough to remember that hes almost seven. I lie there and watch. Im still the only one who gets close enough long enough to know that his nose is a little too big for his mouth. Im still the only one who knows that he doesnt have sleep mannerisms doesnt snore, doesnt puff doesnt lose his symmetry. But is he flopping onto me only accidentally? Is he landing here only because Im in the way? And remember when he went around chanting? Remember when he cried out happy, happy? And if I lingod Whatre you happy ABOUT? hed answer Im happy about YOU. Also, remember his sad? Remember when he said I wanna be sad about YOU ? Still, therell be only a gasp from the square-jawed one. Only a shudder only a sigh from the first soprano the college prof the mother of older children. And Ive been a mother almost half of my life. My scars are almost half my age. Therell be only a shrug from this mother this new kind of mother this quiet stone embarking on the third half of her life. Lucid dreams after 50: Its not your palm youre staring at nor a cheek youre beginning to mold. No eye turns evil. No arm grows long. And no chandelier begins to rattle and way. Also, everything keeps the same distance and the same color. In short, when you say This is a dream nothing happens. So? somebody answers, Wasnt it always? Yes, NOW when you say This is a dream you dont wake up. I could not request a baby at my deathbed but I could request a kitten or two. I could request ear-pairs paw-four-tuples padding, pattering pressing me down softly gently and only in spots.f And he who lies stiff he who sits stiff he of the front carseat he who settled me in and gave me so much of my life hs is here, just here not much else. And I dont know what will give me the rest of my life. That part, I mean, that I need to be given. I know not what car. I know not what shape. I know not what yes. I know not what you. There has been the matter of fifty percent. I have had to be an agnostic about everything. I have had to wonder where babies and kittens are merely prayers. I have had to wonder whether even reality is wishful-thinking whethe Frend was right-er than he wanted to be. There has been not-knowing. There has been Frightened. But there has also been the matter of math. My famous polynomial poem. Crossing polygons. Alternative arithmetics. Pseudo order-type maps. And The Weirdest Is the Sphere. I think, therefore I am. So the set containing me also is. And therefore the set containing that. And then all the unions and cross-products. And then all the quotients and roots. Math has to be so things have to be so babies and kittens have to be. Even if they dont want to even if they dont need to. There are lots of things that be even if theyre all merely functions of me. As a birthday present to myself I make a scrapbook spend early mornings in bulging attic drawers. I celebrate fifty by ascending to ten. And I discover things that please me. First, I wrote more than I remember. Second, I wrote some of the same things I write now. Third, I didnt write as well. Finally, there was the matter of greeting cards. Card I made -- get-well cards for dolls, birthday cards for pets. And cards I bought with their perfection of rhythm and rhme. I collected cards. I got as excited about cards as I did about presents. Once I dreamt about a card about its not-so-silent you at the end of a long but wide road. I loved greeting cards with their sweeping question marks sincere exclamation points and the way they just assumed people care about one another as though thats all people should care about. Yes, the matter of greeting cards. Like the matter of thrift-shopping. And nail-biting and cheek-poking and babies and 50%. And I KNOW what the matter is. Its GOOD matter. Its correct matter. Matter is thought. Matter is energy. Matter can be created but not destroyed. At the party relatives give me checks for $50 and friends give me cartoon books with titles like Hormones from Hell. The morning after we all wake up giddy. It was 50 degrees out yesterday, I call out, and I turned 50. Today its 30 degrees so I think Ill turn 30. We get even giddier. And we stay giddy. So at this point, I guess, humor replaces hormones...? A smoky kind of humor (even though I dont smoke). A low dry one-o-the-gals type of humor (even though I never say gals). You can laugh and not be happy. Its funny-familiar, funny-resigned the acceptance stage of resigned. Such are the humor hormones. Homones without secretions. Hormones without secrets. Maybe, after a while, theyll be the only hormones Ill have. I remember the duck-mobile between and over our beds. The ducks spinned reluctantly lilke planets slowing down. And I see them framed or underlined. Something happened under them. Or behind them. And whatever I remember that wasnt it. When I Am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple. But I wear purple now. Well, black. When I am an old woman and if I am physically not in pain and mentally myself if I am an old woman I shall, wearing purple and shopping for more purple derive great comfort from everything I ever wrote some of it in purple and I shall wish Id written more. Maybe its just my height or maybe its just this heat or maybe its just this day or maybe its just this purse. If I run it swings. If I jump it bounces. Its strap works its way to my bare neck. Or maybe it goes back to my mother. The things she seemed to admire. Children, for example, playing in the rain. And they were LAUGHING, shed sigh and SPLASHING, shed swoon and having the TIME of their LIVES. Probably, as she was saying that I was at the table making clothespin dolls. Maybe thats why I feel so vertical. Maybe thats why, when I play in the rain or in the sun I feel so perpendicular to everything else. Maybe, after I die, theyll BURY me vertical. Itll take up more time but less space. Inistead of laying me down, theyll lay me up. Like a sleeping horse. But at least I wont be toppling. And I wont be carrying a purse. And I wont have to laugh wont have to splash wont have to have the time of my life. Someone tells me that, except for mating and kittens, cats are solitary with their own kind. And I think, well? Meaning, hm. Everything except mating and kittens is a sport. You bob up and down, you run with your purse. The sun stings your eyes and you squint. Cats have the right idea. If the other is hungry, thats different. If youre post-partum logged with blood and gas and milk for the other to drink. But if the other is well-fed well-adjusted and employed if the other is just suddenly THERE if it splats and sticks like a spot if, amidst trees, you spot that spot and if it speaks and if you understand and if it moves towards you or away from you August dream: At the Italian market its sperm season. Fresh picked, fresh packed. Not tubes but plants. Like allo plants. You can squeeze it out of the leaves. You can draw it out of the veins. It runs over your fingers. It eats out of your hand. Dream of living in a nursing home: Bed-ridden a bed among other beds but cranked several inches higher. My sister keeps visiting. She lingers on the railing of the bed to my right as though it were the railing of a ship. I sense some purpose or maybe only a message probably something she hadnt the nerve to say the previous time. Anyway, beds and pillows all of them white all them fluffed all of them fresh all of them baking. One night I dream I have the loveliest profile in town. My full face is too full, my back head too empty, but my profile is internationally renown. As I walk the streets there are constantly appearing, on my left, lightbeams beams that blast the shadow of my profile onto the storefronts. And then, to my right, cameras cameras that freeze those shadows freeze them into precise silhouettes the kind schmaltzy suburb parents have taken of their kids you see the turned-up noses and little open mouths they have them blown up and framed a whole livingroom wall for a nose and a mouth. I dream MY profiile is worth all that. I dream its smeared on billboards, blackboards. Shadow, shadow, on the wall. This is not a case for mirrors but its actually agreed my profile is the fairest of them all. In college freshman first week Bob somebody stood me up. I waited outside those swinging doors and then inside and then outside. It was dark both places. People kept passing and I didnt. Maybe dead is being stood up. Meaning, waiting. Maybe, when you die, you dont leave your body. Maybe you try to and cant. And time keeps passing and you dont. Space keeps waiting and so must you. Im thinking fast-forward now towards the final bleeding. Ill know its not period or miscarriage. Ill know that what Im losing wont be another. And it wont be precious wont be new. No more bargaining, no more denial. Ill have run clear out of stages of grief. Ill sign and give in sigh and give up. Nothing to gain from this loss. Let the blood come. Let the blood go. I cannot fight it this last time. Thanatology conference. Positive-thinking type of presenter. Even if you have only one week left to live, you can still make something out of that one week. Not me, Id be nervous. Not butterflies but hummingbirds. The pink of me would tremble. The pink of me would be sore. I dont MAKE anything when Im nervous. I dont invent and I dont discover. When Im nervous its like Im dead. I cant wait, I would think. I cant wait til its over. And then I would start. And then I would stop. The pink of me would redden. The red of me would freeze. Coffe, maybe. Brownies. Potatoes. Rice. Or I could make license plates. Thats about it. Not ON Twenty-Second Street but IN Twenty-Second Street I saw a flattened cat. It was bigger than a non-flattened cat and skewed a parallelogram of a cat with two dots for eyes two circles for nostrils a racoon of a tail and less than four paws. Picassos cat. Still Life with Death. The ear-triangles were scalene. And too far apart. A topological projection of a cat with only a smattering of red a smidgeon of wet. Just a throat-sized raw-ness a heart-sized splat. I saw that arrangement the way one sees an eagle in the sky. And I thought Not Tygra. Tygras only been missing a couple of days. And now shes missing a couple of weeks. And the flattened cat is also gone. So I have two pictures, two cats. They lie side by side. They have the same colors, same corners. There is an isomorphism between them. They are not super-imposed. Why would I, why would anyone so willingly, frequently, plunge? Why wander off? Why step out? Why not just sing? Why not stay home? Because thrift-shopping is so easy. Easier like Scrabble. Easier like revising. Easier like proving a theorem when you already know how. Easier to pick from what is already laid out than from what I must invent. This February is a month of gruesome dreams. That my mother, cat-sized, crawls at my feet. That my baby, bug-sized, flies at my head. That adoption means chopping off a fingertip and grafting on the child. That, just before company arrives, I spill the pot of soup. It spreads on the floor. I quickly spoon it up. But the potato cubes are missing. But then I find them on another part of the floor. Then I pick out the other floor-things. Next Im someone else but in labor with twins. ONe of the babies is in me, the other is in the father. I do my part, keep on pushing. But the father is lazy, the father takes his time. What does gruesome MEAN? How does it differet from scary? How close is it to dying? Whats the problem this Feb? Dont I love my mother? Dont I want company? Whats in my guts? Children? Toothpicks? Bugs? Or merely potatoes after all? Its better to be this way. Its better to pray to babies and kittens. Better to pray to what prays to us. Better to not quite believe. Not quite believing helps us appreciate. Maybe helps us believe. We want to have this kind of believing. At fifty we still do. Maybe later we wont. Maybe the later it gets the worse we wont. What I seek in the thrift stores: I seek space. I seek time. I seek my past. I seek my future. I seek choice. I seek freedom from choice. And I seek a coat of many colors so I can be the favorite. Getting Used to a Bridge, or The Thick Front Tooth: (1) Questions: Where did a tongue go before? And with what frequency? Also, why must it keep investigating the discrepancies when it already knows? And why, underneath, is there a miniature village? Why are the little people all calling for help? What do they want a tongue to do? And why is the bottom-front so full of preferred directions? Tinny little vectors, not unit-vectors but unit-fraction vectors. Sharp short flowers, or parts of flowers skinny tittering thorns? And why doesnt it matter whata tongue does on the OTHER teeth? Did the villagers under them migrae? Did those vectors get melted or cut down? (2) Headaches, dryness: From not picking the flowers. From not giving in to the vectors. From not following directions. From ignoring those cries for help. Yes, resisting uses muscle. Not-doing take up grease. (3) Mount Everst is also there. But its so up close. (4) A tongue is blind. Thats a nightmare, too. (5) Just forget about it. Forget my mouth? Forget my teeth? Forget my body myself? I was never a forgetter. I was never a not-knower. Not-knowing was never my forte. Not-knowing has always been something I have had to survive. I have had to be a survivor of zero. (6) I hope newborn babies dont feel this way. I hope they dont have to get used to each part of them. I hope they dont have to work it out which nerves belong to which part which parts have no nerves and which have no muscles but are dangerously close to nerves and muscles. Yes, which are the fingernails and receiving blankets. And then which parts can move and how far, which directions. In general, whats possible. Also, where the various parts belong. I mean in REST position. I hope there IS rest position. I hope babies dont have to memorize in a discontinuous vector field what the preferred directions are and how many epsilon each thorn measures and where the origins lie. (7) Maybe The Main Trouble with Adult Life is more trouble than I thought. Not only purses, Kotex, and colostomy bags but casts and bridges. Layers and layers of them. And colonies of little people. And vectors, popping vectors with heads at both ends. Bret asks about Siamese twins. Then Jeff talks about clones. Siamese twins are two forced together. Clones are one forced apart. So clones and Siamese twins are opposites. And one early March morn they do a little dance, a little horror-dance. They do it with a song, especially for me. We are the same. We are one and the same. We say and do one and the same. We make a left. We make a right. Watch us closely. Watch us well. Then they pause, glance about, and speak in non-song. Seriously, no one could read minds THIS quickly. Then they resume. And look, we can meet. We can face and met. We can hug each other, we can kiss each other. We can even pretend to surprise each other. I lie frozen on the bed as the clones stare me down. Maybe the two KITTENS are really the same, they conclude. Likewise your four living children. And those two dresses. You took the top of one and sewed it to the bottom of the other. You made Siamese dresses; you did that to them. They make their exit and I stay frozen. Each of us alone. All of us together. Either way would be no good. Ill never sit around waiting to die. Ill RACE around waiting to die. Either way Ill be waiting to die. ZNDSET2HCHP6*DSETJ2HgrondJCL    00@@P P ` `   #p #p%%((++--00225(5(77:8:8<<?H?HAADXDXFFIhIhKKNxNxQQS SV!VX"X[ #[ ]$]`0%`0b&be@'e@g(gjP)jPl*lo`+o`q,qtp-tpv.vy/y|0|~1~23(4(58687H8H9X:X;h<h=x>x?@AB C D0E0F@G@HPI6*DSUMHDNISTYL > JSTYLCXCC\CdClCtC|CCM   C   B        R HASH $. . . 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