Enough

I wouldn't say the month passed quickly.   

.

I only know that when I take a breath 

it's not the ICU I smell. (That took a while.)

We said goodbye and touched the blanket

one more time and that was that.

They called Code Hero for a donor

while inwardly we wished that he would save 

not all those others, but ... well ... us. 

The hugs made damp by falling tears.

The drugs we used to try and medicate

away the pain or catch up on our sleep.

Fragrant flowers that could not outlast our grief.

The phone calls and texts that must be made

while knowing that each bit of information 

would elicit sobs. Unanswered questions 

rise within my throat that taste of bile and dust. 

 "How are you?" people ask, although this time

I'm not the one who suffers most. But still.

The phrase I use is that I feel a little wobbly. 

What I leave unsaid is that I'm standing 

on a precipice and I know that I could sit.

I know I could avoid the wind that's picking up,

that threatens, that could blow me up to heaven,

down to hell or somewhere in between

but something in me plants my feet, defiant.

I raise a fist and yell "Enough!" as if my voice

could even carry in a storm like this. But suddenly,

sensing my resolve, the wind moves on.

The air is sweet and full of peace and that

will have to do until the next time 

Death, once more, comes near.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2023

              

Midnight Introspection

Sometimes I wish that I was brave enough to throw off 

all the boundaries I’ve known since I was born, 

the noble expectations lurking, nimbly hidden there 

among the do’s and don'ts, the just-because-it’s-rights 

or that-would-be-bad-forms. Or what about the mirror 

of the Word of God that’s miraculously free of streaks 

some days but mostly, since my hands are soiled, is smudged. 

I’m judged as wacky by a world who could not possibly perceive 

my deepest needs and wants, the things I crave to see 

become reality. Freely I confess I’m judged more harshly 

by my inner inclinations interrupting, finding fault 

because I hesitate to face the mist alone, to step out of my comfort zone,

cocoon of who I think that I should be, must be, who I am 

that someone else decided long ago. Shadowed 

by those braver few I love who’ve forged new lives in steel 

and looking at them from the outside how they seem 

to thrive, surviving all the drama they created 

while I’m waiting here, just sitting with a pile of gold 

that glistens but is soft and therefore useless as a sword. 

Even more of those I see seem equally uneasy but 

still they choose to take a chance and push parameters 

to reinvent their universe at will. I wanted to believe 

the year before had whispered promises of change. 

I thought I heard them once or twice upon the breeze but no. 

The hope was just a self-inflicted wound that’s healing as we speak, 

the scar serving as reminder every day that almost all 

I ache for’s just beyond my reach and ever will be thus. 

The truth is sometimes cold but it’s enough. And when I light 

the match and when you gently blow upon the embers of my dreams 

the fire’s as blazing hot as it is short-lived. But if I’m honest – 

and why wouldn’t I be honest, raised by southern saints – 

I wonder if the wine I drank tonight’s responsible 

for all this introspection? Or if it was the key to open up 

the golden box inside my heart and hold it up, 

examining the what ifs and the maybe sos 

that sparkle even as the glowing coals that are my dreams 

grow dim and I am drifting off to sleep once more.

Shadow

Etched upon cold granite
much deeper than the words and dates
her shadow shows an odd reality
but in reverse. It is the light
behind him which both burns and blinds 
and so he blocks it, shadows her 
from all-consuming pain
and warms, instead, her heart.


(c)Ellen Gillette, 2016

Know

Don't know the proper name
for what I'm doing to the food
I'm cooking in the kitchen but I
think it's something vaguely French
because there's butter in the pan.
Don't know the singer or the band
that's playing on the radio there
in the background or the year they
had to get a different drummer
but the beat is solid, and the bass is grand.
Don't know a verse or passage
that could perfectly, succinctly say why faith
that's real cannot be shaken by the news or views
that disagree with me but then again, a God
so easily explained would not be worth the worship.
Don't know or understand how I can be
the age I am with all my history and struggles,
and the present complications of my life and yet
I cling to hope and joy and love as stubbornly
as any fact I've clearly seen in black and white,
or stitched into a picture for the wall.
The food is tasty even still, très bon.
I'm dancing at the sink, my hips in rhythm
with my feet, convinced,
committed to a future I can't see but know
it faintly smells of butter and of spice
and plays the soundtrack of my life.

The only other thing I know is that I
have to listen. And I have to breathe.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Four Women (Or Just One)

When Wendy Dwyer, my writer's group facilitator,
said to write about our passions for
our upcoming I wasn't thinking
of knees. Who would? But then I did.

The woman's knees are calloused,
crouched beside him nailing shingles,
finishing the house she wants to
be a home. Hard work,
she's more than willing,
able, too to see it through, believing he will also
work to see their dreams come true.
She's called to something greater
than herself. Her passion is this
marriage. She's a princess, help-mate, lover,
hopeful that the best is yet to come,
that happy as she is, there will be more.
(Note to herself to pick up lotion from the store.)

The woman's knees are just a little calloused,
crawling on the floor while
playing with the four-year-old,
the two-year-old, her pregnant belly
not a hindrance, and, indeed, she makes
a better elephant that way. Giggles
and guffaws collect and fill the room until,
exhausted, they collapse inside each other's
warm embrace. She's called to something greater
than herself. Her passion is this
family and she is queen of runny noses,
diapers, proper meals, and naps.
(A little baby oil, perhaps? That rough place
might just snag her hose. She grins. As if
she'll soon be wearing those.)

The woman's knees are pink and calloused,
cultivating reverence for her God, a nod
to works when grace is what she's sure
is all that's keeping her from falling clean
apart. It's hard, at times, this life he's handed her
to live, but then again, he gives the
strength and patience to do just that, while
molding her into someone who's soft and pliable, but
fierce as well, not far beneath the surface.
She is called to something greater
than herself, her holy quest a passion that is
simple and profound: to be the daughter of the king
of kings, his servant, and his friend.
(No pride in prayer, for that would be a sin,
and anyway she mostly cries, and trusts he
knows the whys.)

The woman's knees are slightly calloused,
coupled over him, entwined, sublimely
moving to the rhythm of their breaths,
bodacious breasts pressed there against
his skin. A lifetime being loved by
someone who will let her love him back
won't be enough, but she is grateful for
the years she has to be his woman and his
confidante, the hands he holds while walking
on the street, discreetly finding other ways
to touch her, never wanting her to be out
of sight for long. Belonging to an Us,
a something greater than herself, the passion
is not hers alone. And later, when she's
resting quietly, her knees will be anointed
both with lotion and with kisses. Missing nothing
he has noticed the faint roughness,
reveling in all it represents, twin tributes to
her passions throughout life.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

On Weather and Joy

A gloomy day, all gray and drizzle
filled with drama and distraction,
is deficient, too, devoid of power
to persuade away
the sunshine of an inward smile,
subconscious nod to hope, relentless trust
that weather will not make one molecule
of diff'rence when a person is determined
to find joy,
that neither weather nor those folks
determined with each word and action
to play pirate, steal it, undermine
with impure jealousy of anyone
who has the nerve to simply
be, and further, to be happy when the opposite
is true of them and they prefer
(proverbially) some company.
It will not work. The weather, overcast and
raining will not last beyond another day or two.
The people God allows to hang around,
despite their frowning and complaining
won't be there forever, either. We'll
move on or they will, and that thought
alone is like a sunbeam to the weary soul.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Hits Keep Coming

Sometimes, all you can do
is laugh at silly things.
www.funnyjunk.com

The hits just keep on coming
but she's grateful 'cause she
knows it always, always
could be worse. The hits outside
herself are one thing, jobs that
vaporize, the mounting bills,
the car won't start, that kind of
thing's expected now and then.
But when she shoots herself,
there, squarely in the foot,
that's when it really, really hurts.
So easy to avoid, and yet she
didn't. She'll feel better in the
morning when the day is new again,
the past is past, some consequences
still to deal with, but she'll do
whatever's necessary, learn the
harder lessons, know that one day
she'll be free from all the turmoil,
that a creme puff of a job will come,
the bills will all get paid, the car will
be replaced at some point; her whole
life's ahead. And love is out there
somewhere, waiting patiently until
she's ready. Some days it just comes
so fast, waves crashing in. Deep breaths,
deep breaths, a run, encouragement
from those who love her. She'll be fine.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014