pity

pity the woman who has a maid
and is never satisfied by
tucking hospital corners on the
clean sheets she just brought in
off the clothesline where
the sun and wind kissed the cotton
leaving mother nature's scent

pity the man who never learned
to cook or make a mess
following a recipe that will
impress his date before they turn on
music and stand together side by side,
bumping hips as they wash the plates
and plan to do it again next week

pity the children who never played
outside, who think that if it doesn't
have a screen it can't be relevant or fun
or cool, who opens up their brains like jars of
jelly as they're spoonfed sex and violence
and when they're old enough will know
so little of the truth of either one

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2020

Mattress

A marriage doesn’t end in court but on a mattress,

side edges hugged in opposition to avoid a touch.

A divorce decree is merely an announcement,

public testimony that two people who were once in love,

were melded into one heart, mind and body lost their bearings, drifted so apart that they can’t find the other

even in the darkness of a room they always shared.

The gossips want to know who cheated and the judges

beat the brave one down with wisdom based on nothing

more than their own situations, their own dreams, their

standards of what has to, has to, be. They cannot know

and will not see that one person can’t create an Us

without another who is just as focused on the wonder of it all,

each moving closer and pursuing or it comes undone,

unraveled, leaving space between them that solidifies,

becomes a barrier, a wall of hurt and accusation,

indifference, neglect. At first it may be breachable,

the other reachable across the coolness of the sheets,

but if it’s not, it’s not, and there is nothing

to be done but grit your teeth and hold on tightly to that edge

...or leave.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2020

A Hint of Pink

Six weeks into the quarantine of 2020, 

something changed.

A shift of sorts, a breeze of fresh air 
in the gloom that smelled a little bit like hope. 

There were reasons to ignore it

but instead I took a long deep breath 

and let it seep into my pores.

I put polish on my fingernails and on my toenails too. A little thing, a sign of hope, rebelliousness perhaps. It just felt right to spruce the old girl up a bit although no one would notice except me. Some make-up 
and a spritz of that perfume that was a gift,

so costly I would never buy it for myself.

No one else would smell it, no one else could tell

beneath my mask that I had made the effort, put on lipstick even,

but it dawned on me that I’m the one I do it all for anyway.

Traffic on the highway seemed to fall in step with this new sense

as if the whole town called a meeting and the vote was “we are done”

with dreary thoughts about the summer even though

the pundits and the politicians and the stats and graphs still drone

all through the day and night. I didn’t mean to start this riot

of rebellion, people crowding beaches and demanding that

they get their hair done. All I thought I’d do was paint my nails.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2020

Easter 1976

Of all the Easters I have lived,

there is but one unique. One weekend

out of all the rest when I was free of

family and obligation, free to wander

as I pleased. I drove from Carolina up to

West Virginia in my little Bug, across the

turnpike bridge, on to the Bryan’s house

where I could celebrate, relax, forget

about my college classes and relationships.

Most memorably, it was the first time

I experienced the luxury, the sprawl,

of being in a double bed all by myself.

I stretched my arms and legs and felt

like royalty with so much room. Now,

decades after, other Easter memories

inhabit one big pleasant room within my mind,

with cheerful thoughts of brand new dresses,

dyeing eggs and hiding them for little

pieces of myself around the yard, the smells

and sounds of corporate family dinners

that we could not duplicate this year.

I would never trade those memories away

but I am grateful for the slender queen

with long brown hair that sits there in a corner 
at the back, remembering and smiling 

as she stretches once again.

(c) 2019 Ellen Gillette

Safer at Home

No one needs my help or time or conversation, so
I fall upon the bed, a scarf that's carelessly thrown
down and stays in place. I close my eyes and listen.
Two clocks are by the bed, both out of reach because
I only use my phone alarm to wake me up, and never
now. One clock sits silent on the desk, intimidated by
the wall clock overhead that loudly ticks the time.
The kitchen hums as dishes wash themselves,
Bradbury-esque. Two rooms away some people talk
on television. A brush is dropped. It's hot enough that
suddenly a blast of cool conditioned air blows
loudly, not quite reaching to the bed. The clang of something
in a drawer. The television stops. The front door opens, shuts.
I focus on my breath and stretch. I wonder if my ankle
bones would crack if forced to turn my foot in circles (yes).
A little sound is new inside my nose as sinuses unseen redecorate
their little rooms. Perhaps that's next. I've cleaned
out closets, pantries, written, drawn. I've talked to friends
too far away. I've cooked more awesome meals within
the week than in the last few months, watched more TV
and washed my hands and exercised. My stomach
gurgles, asking for a snack (denied, this time). Outside,
a saw is whining and I try to match the tone without success.
The front door, followed by the television. I plan to beat
the COVID beat, survive -- I'm not as sure about that clock.
How many do we need in one room anyway? My phone
announces that I've got a message. Almost everything I hear
depends on power, on a cellphone tower, nothing much organic.
Birds were singing in the morning when the windows were still open
to the coolness. I'd like to fly away myself, social distance from the sky
where I could only hear the wind, earth's breath upon
my face as she waves her mighty arms and balances all life below.


(C) 2019, Ellen Gillette

Freedom

The pavement's been resurfaced
and repaired so many times without
a clue that deep below it are the roots
of something anyone would think
quite insignificant, of no real consequence
until it pushes up again, through sand
and gravel and the tar until it finds the
tiniest of openings and fiercely tackles
it until the window of fresh opportunity
becomes a crack, the crack becomes a door
back to the sky beneath a sun the little
plant -- though withered, covered up and
starved of rainfall -- knew that it would
find once more. So patiently it deals
with challenge and adjustments, knowing
there will never be a world in which its
perseverance fails, that there will never
be a world without the sun.

(c) 2020 Ellen Gillette

The Bends

I've got the bends.

Deep in the ocean of your presence
I had all the oxygen I needed in
just the way I wanted, all the warmth
and life and strength. The call back
to the surface came too soon.
I rose too quickly,
spanning time and pressures,
leaving you for what? And why?
Awareness of the answers
didn't hold me back or slow
me down, ascending to the surface
where the sun shone much too brightly.
Too much nitrogen inside my veins and vessels,
too much me still holding on
in bubbles of despair and separation.
I should have left more slowly --
kinder, gentler rise back to the harsh reality,
the waves and foam that are my life
without you. Dizzy thoughts, my joints complaining,
feverish attempt to tough it out.

I need a decompression chamber for my heart.

Or better yet, one day pull me back, back,
down to the depth of calm where irritating sounds
are swallowed by the vastness of the sea and we
can drift unfettered, singular, at peace so long
that gills will form upon my throat and I will be
a creature of the land no more. A foolish dream,
one fueled by the fever of the bends, no doubt.
A few more hours or a day and I'll adjust.
I'll find the oxygen I need the best I can
but yearning still for water.
And for you.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2020