The 51%

The 51%

In this funk I can’t look at others and not judge them for their bodies.

It’s impossible not to compare.

Jealous of anyone smaller than me, and so embarrassed of my jealousy because

I know better. I know that I should love my body as I am—

Or at least most of me does.

But that 51% can’t let go of the constant consciousness 

of the roundness of my face, 

folds surrounding my belly, the soft mass of my growing frame

And I’m constantly protesting, disgusted inside, 

“I wasn’t like this last year!”

I, in stark contrast to the protruding angles of the POWs I saw recently—

ribs jutting, concave bellies under sunken faces.

Their eyes look bigger. There is 

pain. We both struggle with our bodies

But I, in my plenty, do I have the right?

In these travels, my carefully considered needs 

become heavier the longer I carry them. 

I thought I packed so light

What is this stuff that contributes to my comfort?

Ends up aching my shoulders and back

My blessings of plenty have their own burdens: 

Like endless choices of what to eat.

(and I want to try them all)

So 51% of me knows that a number doesn’t determine

my worth and lovability

But 51 is very close to 49, and for now,

I’m stuck somewhere in between

7.3.12

Assault on My Senses

Assault on My Senses

My pillow smells faintly like starched mothballs

It’s comforting in a grandmotherly sort of way

On the street, a cacophony of smells, sounds and sights intermingle with taste

like a poorly-planned party where the guests feel awkward

and can’t wait to leave

Old urine, fresh urine, tomorrow’s urine

piled high but invisible

Sautéing spices,

air-conditioned body odor

fields of burning plastic

sulfuric sewage

smoldering incense wafts to meet my nostrils—

thick, perfumey

and the flowers—

oh, intoxicating flowers

struggling to mask the urine trails

of intoxicated bums

lying between the brightly contrasting homes of mixed hues

with a colorful temple on every corner and bold, vivid scenes

depicting the heroic acts of gods

and goddesses venerated

for thousands of years                                                      

Flowing silk saris of every shade

folded neatly, stacked ceiling-high

make it impossible to choose

which one to buy

Same dilemma with the dazzling jewelry,

variety of bags, rugs, blankets, sandals

whatever you desire

To illustrate the scene,

each crayon in the box would feel like a VIP

Dogs barking get lost in the

honking beeping shrieking banshee horns

announcing our arrival

or impending doom with a lost game of Chicken

Incessant horns on the road,

more prevalent than seat belts, ironically

compete with others for the biggest, baddest sound

Can I pay more for a bus that doesn’t honk?

Train whistles make it hard to sleep

As do the (loud)speakers blaring music

all through the night

of that woman singing nasally high-pitched

What harvest festival is this?

Did you have to blast it to the moon?

Celebrating new produce, weddings and young girls’ first periods

Food is vital to a celebration

Vital to life

Salty, sour, sweet, pungent and bitter in every bite

Delicious, exotic, spicy and hot

Can my mouth handle this?

Sinus-cleaning: a bandana is my necessary utensil

to wipe my dripping forehead and nose and

chewing my banana-leaf plate helps temper the flavor

while eating in

air so thick I could sit on it

The heat, they say, is oppressive

But nothing chokes me more

Than what we do to each other

Strangers to strangers,

Nations against nations,

Friends and families

No one is immune, it seems,

From the daily offenses given

And received

(sometimes when none was intended)

So many are petty, yes,

but can anyone deny

The significance of so many horrors happening

In homes that are no haven

I sleep on this mothbally pillowcase

And I try to sort out the scenes of the day

I know that later, in another place,

any of these senses can whisk me back to this moment—

Nay, to this place

My senses easily recover from the dissonance they’ve encountered

But hearts—

They are a different matter

4.21.12

My Body Is Like Machu Picchu

My Body Is Like Machu Picchu

To those who are seeing for the first time,

Trekking breathlessly up its slopes,

Machu Picchu is a natural wonder

With its powerful waterfalls

Craggy overhangs and grassy resting spots

Wildlife bounding freely through

Breathtaking vistas

They are blind to any flaws

Novelty in this case is easy beauty

(love at first sight)

But can I,

Who live on this mountain,

Maintain my wonder and awe

For God’s great creation?

And allow others to marvel

Or just appreciate it

For its simultaneous simplicity

And grandeur?

And admire all subsequent sights?

4.21.12

Paper Airplanes: Reclaiming Myself

Paper Airplanes: Reclaiming Myself

Dear God,
I love you.
I just said I loved you, but you know I’m not feeling it. I show it in many actions, yes, but the feeling’s not there now.
And I know you love me, but I’m not really feeling that either.
I’m so sorry.
This is not how I want to be, but I bring it upon myself and give in to the pull of my demons. It’s a very familiar place, and I actually thought I had left it behind—possibly forever—until very recently.
How quickly I fade into the shadow.
I want to bask in the Son shine.
This prayer wants to be a poem, but what’s a poem without feeling? On that note, what’s a prayer without all of my heart? Like a paper airplane that nosedives upon take off. But somehow, I have a feeling that God will lift up my floppy prayer and carry it home.

9.21.11

Build Me A Spaceship

Build Me A Spaceship

Imagine the vantage point of earth

from space: Sphere of swirling whites hovering vibrant greens and blues,

bordered by browns and abyss of black barely seen by the mere airplane pilot

who to me is pretty awesome already and who

spends more time with the sun than those of us

below the clouds

Is his the big picture?

Something in me says Nay, there’s more

Jealous of astronauts

Who’ve taken the journey

Fraught with risks, of course—

Even this field has its martyrs—

They’ve defied gravity

to experience things

the rest of us only simulate

in our virtual-reality ways

Glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling are: playful, fun

Planetariums and nights out with aurora borealis are: insightful, romantic

With feet planted firmly in the ground

I crane my neck to look skyward

Ah, yes, I can somewhat make out

that constellation

*  *  *

God said

All Things Are Possible With Me!

and I Will Prepare A Way To Do What I Ask!

Ahem,

He wants me to fly to SPACE?

Some distant planet’s waiting to be explored

inhabited

discover new moons and stars and

Life

my new life there

in some galaxy that is light-years away

only visible through a telescope and oh, man, my lens is cloudy

[Here, let me wipe that for you]

Contemplating the universe,

Earth suddenly seems: so secure, familiar

We’ve been here for eons

It’s the only world I’VE ever known

Hey, I have roots here

You want me to do what now?

[Deep breath]

So. Help me build the spaceship
Clearly I can’t fly. (That parachute I tried making out of a bag as a child was a real flop)

All previous methods of transportation have

failed to get me there.

Okay—I say Yes.

I’ve done my research and I just need

a little spaceship to travel

You say

It Is Possible! Well,

Pissible Possible!

That freaking spaceship is a metaphor for a cosmic chasm that does exist!

And a metaphor can’t carry me a single step

So, Lord, what the heck on earth do I do?

Enjoy the Odyssey, Dear One.

3.7.2012

Onomatopoetic

Onomatopoetic

In my present state,
I love to say the word
“ferocious,”
feeling the way each phoneme combines to create
a word whose meaning matches my mood like
an emotional onomatopoeia. Starting on the lips,
the deep “o” comes from behind and grabs the “f” and “r”
down into the gutter
where they all churn with the “cious.”

2.13.12