Katrina Kaye
legs
bare
brown
smooth
to touch
can’t help
but watch
as they
walk away
ridiculous
the way
your lips taste
there is too
much gratitude
to be bitter
I gather
strength upon
back bone
desperate
to get the
tune right
to lure
you
to me
the smell of
your air
is rotten
is familiar
is perhaps
the same as
my own
don’t leave
this town
not yet
chance is still
hanging on
your words
unlocked
headlights
in the rain
I try
to love you
better
By Gina Marselle
“I am not afraid of storms for I am learning how to sail my ship.” ~Louisa May Alcott
The fatigue is real.
Inevitable,
like a ship sinking
or falling red wood.My eyelids must close.
Even as I write.
I have to stop.
Place my pen down.On the pillow
my head caves.
My body curves
into a fetal position.Meds to high.
Meds to low.
Autoimmune
has a mind of her own.Sadly, they come in pairs.
With marching orders:
“Take her down.”
“Be invisible so others don’t know.”Napping is for babies.
But I am a mother of a 22 year old,
A nine year old. Nap I must.
Why does my body betray?I sit so quiet. Eyes closed.
Meditate like still clouds in the sky.
I am the storm.
Wounded, but not defeated.Fighting for a quality of life
that is more than
one foot in the grave.
That isn’t lead by anxiety & depression.It is always exhausting—
to the point I am just alone.
No one wants to be around that doom.
It’s okay! Look away.Turn the page. Walk away.
Forgotten–
like desert dust
after a monsoon.I am not offended.
I don’t even want
to do anything anyway.
I may cancel our planned coffee date.I may call to just cry.
There is nothing you can do,
but I sure appreciate
just knowing you care.
>Did you know:
“Nearly 4% of the world’s population is affected by one of more than 80 different autoimmune diseases, the most common of which include type 1 diabetes, multiple sclerosis, rheumatoid arthritis, lupus, Crohn’s disease, psoriasis and scleroderma.National Institutes for Health (NIH) estimates that they collectively affect between 5% and 8% percent of the U.S. population. For unknown reasons, the prevalence of autoimmune diseases is increasing.”
>Personal Note:
I am personally still learning about my disease. It took 14 years to finally get diagnosed with Hashimoto just 12 weeks ago. It is suspect that I have another autoimmune disease and will find out this week after other blood work.I am sharing my story because people with invisible diseases or disorders often suffer alone. It’s sad and horrible. It is also difficult to get out and be around people. I also have severe anxiety and depression (depression comes and goes, maybe affected by Hashimoto and my mother’s death). Newly diagnosed with PTSD. Suffering from GI issues, it is challenging to find health. I have stayed silent for the most part, minue close friends and family. Sometimes it feels like just complaints, and humans don’t want to listen to complaints, especially without hope.
Image from:
https://www.quotemaster.org/autoimmune+disease
Without a cape,
he flies.
Boundless love,
holding my heart
in his eyes.
He waits for my cue.
And he walks beside,
or follows with humbleness.
A gentle nudge or hug—
exactly what I need.
While he breathes,
I’ll never be alone.
My German Shepherd Dog,
never one more brave.
While I sleep, he guards.
Loving and loyal, his lifelong love
selflessly gifted to me.
~gina marselle
Follow my service dog in training, Beowulf, on Instagram: @be_like_wulf_gsd.
Beowulf. 6.5 months old #servicedogintraining
One days like this
I feel like the pills
stopped working, that
I need a higher
dose and I consider
calling my doctor,
saying I can’t
get out of bed, saying
there is nothing
here for me.
On days like this,
I hug friends for no
reason and don’t let go.
My dog’s brown eyes make
me cry when I have no time
to take him for a walk,
and I think I need a
new prescription,
to call someone,
to disappear for a while.
On days like this,
on days like this,
I think of my mother
and how she has made it
through days like this.
I must make it too.
On days like this,
on days like this,
I think of the clever words
I should have written
in bathroom stalls
in big, black sharpie marker.
I think about what
I should have be said
the last time we met
and how that moment is
forever gone.
On days like this,
On days like this,
I think of the woman driving
the bus the same age as me
and wonder if she’s happy.
I think of all the little
lost marbles and pens
that never had a chance
to run out of ink.
I think about the rock
not pretty or special enough
to be collected and
the way the world ends
when you die.
I think of the promises
I made to myself and
the silence that came
when I broke them.
On days like this,
on days like this,
on days like this,
I don’t know if I can
make another day
like this.
by Gina Marselle
“We are learning that before the body can become a temple, it first must become our home.” ― Lucy H. Pearce, Medicine Woman: Reclaiming the Soul of Healing
The field is black
The clouds are white
Burnt out
I’m alone
Dreams fade
The tunnel narrows
Like a river
And I move
One way
I’m walking
And there are no sounds
Other than footsteps
Breath
It is as if the world is empty
And death is scary
Maybe life didn’t frighten Maya Angelou—
But here I am at a crossroad again
What do I know?
What advice do I have?
Other than–
Wisdom fades with memory
Or brain fog
My autoimmune disease
Attacks relentlessly
Hashimoto is its name
It has turned my world upside down
It starts with my thyroid–the mother of my house
This disease kills my hormones
Boosters my anxiety until it is a Jedi
Until I am bedridden with a fatigue
Unexplainable to anyone not fighting for their very life
It is death with eyes open and shallow breaths
It has been too long since the green fields of joy
Touched my toes
I am nothing,
if not transparent;
skin a shallow
cloak
clearly
spotted with
intentions
colored and
shaded by layers
of cells
unfurling.
I am missing teeth,
the stubbornness
of religion; I am mourning
more than I thought I would.
I am combat.
I am ridiculous.
I am nothing
but a smile
and a lazy morning.
I am coated in silent patience
and an empty womb; I am settled
in the sunlight of afterthought;
a million miles removed.
I am nothing
if not easy to
see through.
I am ghost,
transparent,
nothing.
Some of the best dancing
happens at home in the kitchen,
in the living room. I don’t often
dance, but sometimes a body
needs to shake off shame
of the world. Right now, I dance
as if there were a deep ocean
at the meeting of my thighs,
one there to keep invasion
at bay, a noble prevention
of blown-out buildings,
of bowed heads. All
of the horrors that go
with war. We have been
watching them unfold,
shocked, even though
we knew they would come,
knew they would be there
in this new war.
*
Long ago, the goddess looked
straight ahead like a deer watching,
like a wolf, like a lion, a bear.
She cast spells of love and justice
with each spoken word.
The goddesses today
have been made into statues
with lowered gazes
as if the air were already dust.
*
I dance in the kitchen
with lights on, music eases
out of speakers. I want to dance
hard enough to sweat, for rain
to fall, for peace to be
a spell we can still cast.
—Liza Wolff-Francis
In an effort to return to the root of my passion in poetry, I’ll be revisiting an old poem to enter into National Poetry Month; I’ve never been one to discipline myself into an agreement to do 30 poems for 30 days and so it seemed more appropriate instead to flip back in my notebook, of all the poems written from Saturday’s Sirens poetry salons, and find something that resonated with me still. I think the power in poetry is not only in the power or relief you find in writing the first draft, but also in how it sits with you, weeks or months or years later. Sometimes this is like visiting with an old friend for coffee and not skipping a beat, other times this is like meeting a stranger and somehow feeling as though you’ve known them for decades. This poem, particularly, was written on my birthday, July 17th, last year, and brought me back not only to the joyous summertime salon, but of warmer days and sunshine, while Northern Ontario spring still sits trapped beneath snow. So here’s to finding a safe place carved into the ice caverns of my heart, as I await warmer days again.
heart/garden
there is a room carved out of my heart,
a dark cave with scarlet-and-purpled walls;
there is an echo of a beat-beat
that vibrates with safe words:
passwords to my innermost soul
that whisper gateways to a place where there is
no anxiety
no lingering sadness
that drips from cavern walls
and forms stalagmites of regression.
in one of these rooms, there is a low swinging light:
a teetering stalactite,
which wards away the dark thoughts.
they can’t invade, they have no place here
in this room of scarlet
and burgundy and gold.
flowers grow in the arteries of this heart-room,
tree trunks make the ventricles;
and hollowed out inside, there is a safe place;
a secret garden of my heart-mind,
where moss grows over the places
where enemies once stayed.
here, even bitter memories
that carry the tang of copper,
that are as biting as a paper-cut,
become sweet,
eventually.
here, everything is in bloom again:
like spring,
where I lay on the soft moss
of my fallen worries
and put myself to sleep amongst the rubble
and wake to renew, repair,
resurrection.
there is a room carved out of my heart,
where everything is a garden.
© Maxine L. Peseke, July 2021/April 2022
Spring Garden
g.marselle
3.26.2022
I root and dig for bone, shell,
and radishes.
I find potatoes and worms.
The peppermint is sprouting.
Its green, creeping stolons
are stark against desert dirt.
My dogs dig.
They find little treasures.
A bird’s beak,
a steak bone.
It’s like a witches brew
instead of a spring garden.
Still, I dig
allowing the cool earth
to slip like blood
between my fingers.
The spring air is unseasonably warm
and hope travels
as songbirds whistle,
as ants wonder in and around the mint.
I am no longer
tied to
the tangible.
I spread
wings. I fly.
Dripping
flesh from bone,
leaving cells
skipping
into the wind.
I wasn’t built
to be statue.
You knew it
the first time
you grabbed
my hand and
it dissipated
like sand.
Saturday's Sirens 