Ripe

I was a hand-me-down sweater and skinny legs, the only second grader that couldn’t ride a two-wheeler without training wheels.

My father was a briefcase; leather-bound and locked, stashed behind the tomato plants. He was crisp dress shoes on stale summer mornings and a lonely green bathrobe after nine o’clock. He was the mustache that scratched my face before bed on holidays. He was the creases between my mother’s eyebrows and silent at the table.

My father was the sweat that dripped in the basement behind hammer and nail.

He was a blue saxophone solo slipping through open windows when he thought the neighborhood was sleeping.

So I finally just taught myself how to ride the purple big-girl bike one afternoon with sunshine beating on my neck. I learned to balance and turn, to roll passed font yard maple trees without looking back.

I have been riding alone ever since.

I was pink floyd t shirts and no hips, the only thirteen year old without a birthday crush or kiss.

My mother was a curling iron and a manicure set; tweezers, clippers, tiny scissors and red polish. She was the slamming of the screen door against the porch. She was maple seed helicopters in fall. She was the pop fizz clink of beer poured into old glasses. She was the twisting cigarette smoke that was rumored to kill me and she was the cold side of the pillow.

My mother was blankets of sparkling white november snow, cold and wet.

She was the cordless telephone left beneath the bed.

So I finally just taught myself how to put on lipstick one night with the bathroom light illuminating my wet eyes. I learned to pout and pretend, to demand an ear with lust-drenched whispers.

I have been demanding ever since.

I left one spring in the middle of the night

I left to dance in some wild sanctuary

I dug into dry soil to plant a mustard seed

I stood on my tip toes just to touch holy broken hands and feet.

Today

I am arriving home

to let sleeping orchards rot.

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