The Divorce, part two (a poetry series)
Here’s my attempt at a poetry series. It’s not polished by any means, but I haven’t posted poems on my blog in a while, so I thought I should — whether these poems are worth publishing or not.
So, here’s a series. I have posted the first part on my blog at least once. I wrote two other parts to it. I’m not in love with parts two and three; they seem a little incomplete. But writing is rewriting, right, Dr. King?
—
The Divorce, Part Two
I. Leaving
Step-motherhood has few rules—keep the kids alive
is one and you nearly broke it that time
you picked me and my brother and my best friend
up from youth group drunk and laughing
and you told me to drive
I was fifteen but I did it because you weren’t hitting
the brakes when you should have and
it scared me.
I loved you when I was seven and you always kept your candy
bowl full of Whoppers and you’d convince Dad to take us out
for lunch and you’d let me and my brother go on adventures
whenever you were around
we had fun.
You loved my writing and I let you read it more
than I let my mother which made her cry once but you thought
I was the best and you didn’t know enough to correct
my grammar or call my writing “religious” like my mother
because you knew how much I hated that word—
religious.
I used to sit on your bed and ask you
what the Bible said about dinosaurs or what it said about pride
the good kind like for America
you taught me Christianity was a relationship
when you used the name Jesus so affectionately
(which I later grew to hate because it sounded cheaper
that way but at the time I loved it because it sounded like
he was your best friend and I wanted a Jesus best friend too—
not a religion).
And one of those days you called my sister an atheist
because she was unsure of what she believed and
you told her how our mother is going to hell because she’s
a Jew and God no longer loves Jews the way he used to
so we need to pray for her
and me—I need to pray for my sister
because if she keeps this up she’s going to hell along
with the rest of my friends who don’t go to church anymore
I asked you what grace is and you said
you didn’t know.
I know I should be sad that you’re leaving us but
I’m not really that sad more like relieved
because my dad can drink his beer again
and my sister can be agnostic again
and I can call Jesus affectionate names without feeling like
I’m cheapening him.
II. Having Left
We know that glassy look in her eyes.
It looks familiar, because we’ve had it too
for men who muttered the word “maybe”
to keep us from crying.
“Maybe, maybe we’ll get back together. Someday, but not soon.”
That word is the furniture in your house still.
It’s the invitation to lunch, for salads at her apartment.
It’s the monogrammed coat hook in your garage,
the two-by-three photo in your bathroom.
It’s her last name, our last name.
Dad, you say “maybe” and everything stays the same.
III. The Divorce, Part One
I cry because you are,
but all I care about is the blue frosting flower
on the cake in the kitchen and cartoons
on the TV in your bedroom.
You say Daddy’s leaving and I remember
the first time it happened: his grey suitcase
by the front door; you were crying together
on the couch in the living room.
I could hardly talk I was so young,
but I knew the glue of love, so took
the heart-shaped pillow from the loveseat
and put it between you two.
You both laughed.
Daddy never left for good,
and even now when you call it
divorce, I’m sure he will return
to pour us milk at dinner,
to tuck us in,
to kiss us goodnight.
June 26, 2011