Zane Means God is Gracious

I don’t deserve

my son’s grace.

Today I had

a hard day.

Personal stress over

the mockery of feelings

that have become

my nonexistent love life.

Instead of crying

over my broken heart,

I sucked it up all day

like a strong mom.

Until I lost my patience

over the slime

that my son had spilled…

I should have took

a deep breath

and helped to clean up

but instead I yelled

about the mess

in the carpet

before I realized

that I was

having a panic attack

over my child’s fun.

So I turned my back,

walked slowly to the couch

where I sat down and cried

my eyes out in shame.

My sweet child

who could not let me

lie down in pain,

came forward

and standing before me

he said,

“It’s going to be okay, Mama.

Don’t cry.”

Then he reached

his loving arms

around my neck,

hugging me

through my disheveled breaths

until I found grace again.

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The Pain Before It’s Over

My heart knows

the loss of you

before my lips

have found the courage

to let you go.

I’m sitting inside myself,

mourning the hope of us

which will surely die

when I’ve spoken my truth.

I know what I will say,

given the opportunity

pattern making plain

the future.

I have my reply

before the conversation begins.

Saved on a notepad

for the next time that

you ask for my bed,

or claim that your schedule

is too busy for anything

more intimate.

Ask me

and I will copy and paste

my freedom into our text.

The pain, by then,

will be almost over

because I’ve been prepared

for your response

by predictability.

Allowing me to mourn

your answer

long before you spoke it.

It may confuse you,

that I even thought to

give opportunity to this conversation

when I knew your answer was

bound to hurt me,

but I thought that assumption

was shallow

and I wanted to give you

the chance to purposely

choose me.

You Are A Cloud

I’m bored with you.

It’s a verse

that I want to scream.

Why I’ve been choking it down

for intimate falsehood

is beyond me.

So I’m saying it,

accepting it.

Hoping you will forgive

my forward speech.

I’ve lost interest

in your minimal efforts

and predictable patterns.

Deep breath out,

exhaling my truth.

Finally, I feel better.

Do you?

Restrained

I wrote this poem 17 years ago, in 7th grade.

Enough Said

My thoughts carry me

in gusting winds

to the things that I should have said.

Repeating moments that could have been,

imagining the space in time

where I took a deep breath

replaced by the pain I should have spoke to.

The moment when…

I’m fed up and burst

with the venom

that has been held back on my tongue

for the sake of your attention

until patience is no longer my grace

and I can’t look at you with kindness.

My anger a seed that rumbles in my chest

which grows rapidly like vines

out of my limbs

wrapping around my torso and lips

until it is all consuming,

and I, a deadly flower that you must’n pick.

In that moment,

my thoughts are carried to you

on the wind

falling short of your deaf ears

and egotistical stare

which stops me in my tracks.

The pain retreating into me suddenly,

the vines a shadow presence.

The futileness robs my vocal cords

just as suddenly as a storm ends.

Each time I’m taken there,

the wind stops abruptly at the dead end

which is your cold heart

and I’m left to sit

in the self loathing presence,

where the venom still lingers on my tongue

and my disappointment leaves me

a woman with less to give.

Hello, My Name Is Tired Mom

Hello to the neighbor

who plays his music too loud.

I live above you,

my name is Tired Mom.

If it wasn’t for you,

I would be asleep by ten o’clock.

As luck would have it,

your music stayed on closer to half past

the moon’s descent and right before

the birds’ song.

Hello to the landscaper

who starts mowing my lawn

at the break of dawn.

My bedroom is the one

with the windows cracked open

in hopes of a slight breeze to bring me calm.

My name is Depressed Woman.

If it were up to me,

you wouldn’t be my alarm clock.

Hello to the woman screaming

at her grown daughter

in the building west of mine.

I shouldn’t be able to hear all that you say

with the volume of my tv turned up high.

My name is Desperate For Quiet.

I needed an afternoon nap,

but your argument keeps me staring at my walls.

Please do us all a favor

and shut the fuck up.

Hope

Ode To Us

I pulled a blonde hair out of your tank top

when I was tracing my fingers 

on your neck.

It was the morning after

we fucked on my couch

and you held me in your arms

as you slept.

When we woke early to the sun’s rays 

and birds chirping,

you found my body twice.

You dressed slowly after

and smiled complacently as you sat

at the edge of my bed.

Satisfied with yourself or me,

I can never tell.

Not ready for your departure

I reached for you instead.

I rubbed your back in longing 

for something true.

What I found was a woman’s hair

that I’m sure belonged to the one

you said never touches you.

I let the dead strand drop 

to my carpeted bedroom floor

not a word said

and continued to trace my fingers 

in the way that I know you like.

When you left I kissed you goodbye twice

and wondered curiously at the past few months.

You’ve changed the way you hold me.

More tongue in your kiss,

Kissing me more frequently during our visits.

Having learned me, your love is less selfish.

Your arms hold me all night,

and your snores come quickly

when months prior,

I would have been gifted

with just a few moments of affection

before your back turned to me in sleep.

But the blonde hair was in your tank top

nonetheless,

and you never call me pretty

which I find suspicious 

because you always gasp at my nakedness

and smile when I laugh.

Just the same,

you left that morning

and I pretended to be okay.

As the door clicked shut behind you,

I thought,

well love,

that’s it… our story

represented in just a day.

A Conversation between the Queen and the Moon

Parasitic