You can recognize my family by the uncostliness of our clothes.
There are some articles that pop out
With love
With cherished wearing
But among us
You will find many a frayed hem
Many a stretched seam
An ill fitted jacket
Scuffed up shoes with a hole peeking through
A threadbare wrist or elbow
A stained shirtfront
A visible knee
A hat with an uneven brim
A thriftstore bin tank
A dollarstore tee
A waistband losing its elasticity
Layers of not rich
Not expressed in fancy
But not costly either
Except for that one bag
For that one hat
For that one pair of shoes
That one tie
That one dress
That one pair of socks.

Nod, smile, accept.
Stop doing what you’re doing
Say “Thank you” and bow your head.
That’s fine. Sure – just take whatever
Criticism any one has
Take it in
Digest it
Let their judgment
Supersede your own – and if it hurts,
Don’t return the favor.
Don’t, after receiving barbed opinion
After sharpened critique,
Sharpen up your own blade
Or twist your own wires into stars of pain.

I am so tired of peoples’ opinions.
They have so many of them
Each one convinced he or she is right –
Especially about art.
“Here’s what you should do” they say
After eating your soup.
“Here’s what you should have done. I know this is a borscht – but I’d really
Leave out the beets next time.
I think it could use some tofu
Or some wakame
Some green onions
Maybe a miso broth.”
And I nod
I say, “Thank you for your suggestions –
I will take that into consideration.” The next time I make soup,
Despite my love for borscht,
I really consider Miso.

This was a matter of policy for me for many years – listening, being my
Particular habit, or superpower, or
Special skill, or Achilles heel.
And giving every man mine ear
Sometimes meant sitting and sitting and
Nodding and smiling and taking on a lot
That wasn’t mine.
I had a boyfriend once
Who couldn’t stop talking.
I listened, because that is what I do
But once, I stopped saying “mmmhhmm” and “yes”
Stopped nodding my head
Stopped all those cues that let a person know
You are receiving them. I also got out my watch and timed
How long he could go without my saying
A single word?
It was hard for me
The temptation to say “yeah” or
Ask a question in response to what I’d heard was great
But I just watched the minute hand tick by instead
Watched until half an hour had passed when
He finally said
“How are you?”

Strap on the mental claws. Quill yourself out like a porcupine –
Sharp and pointed things can spring out of you, like a gear landing into place.
At every joint, a weapon –
So that any movement creates distance, creates a wider and wider perimeter.
If you must –
Build a barbed wire fence in a circle where you stand, electrifying it for extra protection
But be careful it doesn’t trap you beyond the moment
When the danger has passed.

O, I beware,
I be wary indeed and have been
Since my youth.
My entire system is built to beware entering a quarrel.
Whenever a quarrel came by
You could always catch me peddling furiously in the other direction, as far
As possible, even if it took me well out of my way.
Sometimes, though, a quarrel can sneak up on you
When you’re looking the other way
And there’s no avoiding it
No getting around it
Or through it.
The quarrel can be as big as a hurricane and just as impossible
To escape once it’s arrived.
The time past to board up the windows, to flee, to get in the car
And drive straight out of town.
All there is to be done is to stand and face the wind and water.
But with each one
I become warier and warier
Though somewhat stronger and sometimes, sometimes
When it’s absolutely necessary
I’ve seen the quarrel brewing off in the distance
And rather than waiting for it to strike,
I’ve gathered my things around me and headed straight to it.

Little courage,
Flapping its not quite feathered wings,
Bouncing up
To peck at your nose
But mostly only reaching your bellybutton.
Little courage’s chest is all puffed up –
It’s trying to make itself look bigger
Trying to be the big little bird on the block
Despite the fact that it is just a little fluff ball
That you could drop kick over the wall.
There’s a nest full of them
A squeaking and chittering and chattering and twittering and brrrruping
Bumping into each other like soft fluffy bumper cars.
Set the nest high – Little nest full of tiny bundles of new courage.

The very day my father recited this speech to me
I met a friend who I have since grappled unto my soul
With an Olympic collection of steel hoops.
As I write these words, she is walking down the street to meet me –
A whole heap of years after our first meeting and hooping,
And all the subsequent grapplings, bringing steel and soul
Together over time.
I have a small collection of these hooped friends,
Those whose adoption has been tried
And found strong and fierce and full of steady unwavering love.
I have a steel boned hoop skirt of them
Stacked one upon the other
Not necessarily touching one another
But suspended in space
Connected by soul fabric
Hanging and swaying with my movement.
There when I dance
When I run
When I search and explore
Soul grappled
I am like a mobile of love –
A Calder of devotion.

The lines of vulgarity have stretched rather wide in recent years.
They’re like a waistband on an old pair of pajamas
Stretched so far beyond its old form
As to be unable to return to its smaller shape
The way it used to.
We have drifted from a jolly familiarity to a comfortable vulgarity.
We’d probably have to make a whole new set of pants
To get this waistband back to itself.

For years, I heeded this advice
Kept my thoughts to myself,
Writing them
Rather than speaking them, Only sharing them
When explicitly requested.
I’m still pretty good at keeping my own counsel
But I will let my tongue share them on occasion –
Because silence will not often get you what you want.
It is safest
I agree.
But safety –
Safety
Might not lead to a life of surprises and delights. Thoughts on a tongue
Can lead to many secret and sweet corners.

Write them down with neuron ink
List them
Letter by letter
Then overwrite them
Because a memory once written
Must be written again
In order to be remembered.
Without a second writing
Or a third
Or a fourth
A memory will remain pure
But it will be in accessible.
If a memory is forgotten
It becomes a more accurate
Memory
But if it’s written
And rewritten
And transformed
And transfigured, transmogrified
It will remain there
Indelibly written
Over and over again
Engraved
Slowly over time
Like a stream of water
Carving out a stone.