So, when I started writing poetry again, I told myself I wasn’t going to share it here. Personally, I love poetry, but it’s definitely polarizing medium. Most people, love it or they hate it- there just aren’t many who say, Poetry? Meh. I could take it or leave it…
But last week, I actually think chemo tried to kill me, like for real. Everyone knows that hypothetically speaking, chemo can kill you, but it’s only textbook scenarios until hives break out the night you take chemo, or you find subdural bleeds, or facial neuropathy. Even more fun is bowel neuropathy. Or the nerve pain, the mouth pain, the never ending waves of hot flashes (I’m already menopausal thankyouverymuch twenty-three years ago chemo). My red cell count is so low, I can’t climb stairs without stopping to rest. I’ve never felt worse, ever, in my life. I informed my doctor that I refuse to take taxotere again. To be fair, I think it’s not likely he’d give it to me again anyway, but I’m not taking chances.
The good news is, my hair is growing back. Welcome to the shit show, right?
Anyway, last week was filled with I wanted to…I hoped… I intended, along with hours and hours of resting in bed. It isn’t as fun as you might think. I can’t beat myself up about it, though, not without risking angering the one portion of me that isn’t still pissed about taxotere, whereever that is. But I did at least do my daybook journaling where I repeat my affirmations for this year everyday. One of the affirmations says, “I can trust my inner voice.” Listen, if there’s one thing evangelicalism will teach you it’s that your inner voice is evil and bad and should be quashed down with all your might. Never listen with your gut, your, heart or your feelings lest you be a slave to your own rotten flesh. This is a grievous sin, to be avoided at all costs.
Fortunately for me, I was always at least skeptical on this point even before I was flat out horrified by it. My trusty inner voice has carried me through some pretty shit times, this week included. I leaned in hard to everything my body was telling me and tried to give her exactly what is best for her, because she’s a good body carrying me through a really hard time. Her voice is my truest guide, which brings me back to the poetry. It’s fine if you stop here, I won’t judge. But, my gut’s telling me this one’s for the blog, and so here she is.
She’s not an easy woman.
Oh, she knows.
Not nice, compliant, or well-mannered,
likely to discard all pretense in the most inconvenient places.
No Proverbs 31 dreamgirl, she, at least not the watered down version
at the local Christian Bookstore.
Taking her cues from the sort of woman
more suited for burning at the stake, than being praised at city gates.
She’ll have hers rare, please.
She tried reforming once — or twice
sold her soul to a religious discount store, cheap theology in every aisle.
A small man-made god in a high-end box.
Even signed a behavior contract.
It didn’t take, Bless it.
She’s not an easy woman.
Oh, She knows.
Constantly evolving .
Becoming, deeper, wider, bolder
It’s very difficult to contain someone who takes up
Like she doesn’t know her place or simply
Doesn’t care (would she dare?)
A goddess encased in dragon’s scales,
each skin she sheds brings her closer to the heart of
who she IS
Pierced deep and opened wide
She’ll only be reborn again
with wings this time.
Have care. She still breathes fire.
She’s not an easy woman. Oh,
Don’t bother waiting on apologies.
She left those behind. What a mess!
Piled up with the chains and trappings,
All the patriarchal wrappings.
The oh-so-safe and tidy bullshit
masquerading as sweet cream
fit to lap from a dainty silver dish.
Such a good girl.
She’s wildly inconvenient, if you please,
Enjoying it even more when you don’t.
Filled with laughter so loud
She leaves them all wondering just who that unfettered woman
Thinks She Is
She is me, goddammit (though, She won’t)
She who was always, ever meant to be
No easy woman.