Sunscreen On Leather Seats
Prose poem
Never thought you’d be on the other side of me — when words simply can’t penetrate and looks of “let’s get over this” get down-played — when sunscreen left on leather seats gets more attention than endearing memories of blackened feet — the naturalist you fell for deep now ignites your angst for keeping life neat — and another drink gets poured in your attempt to escape, you? / me?
I’ve been skipping stones — hanging out with retirees (for reference, I’m forty-three)— an imposter like the spotted red lantern fly — only — no one notices me — like the morning fog, I dissipate into my surroundings— an intentional loss of self, I suppose.
Or is it… an arrival…? You see, at least here, I need not be scheduled in the calendar for a neighborly exchange. You have no idea the hurriedness of moms these days — I refuse to iron my hair (let alone the sheets). Believe you me, they still do that in these days — and the non-stop activities…Why the…bleep?
Cause I don’t give a god damn shit about sunscreen on leather seats when we might be losing us — I don’t think you care enough — it’s just fucking stuff — I’m ready to give it all up — but not you, not us — not when there’s two between us — so now what?
Remember the China Town bus…and road trips upstate with the top down…being surrounded by possibilities of what we’d create? — I’d always said the king-sized bed was the death of intimacy.
How did we become this cliche?
I’m letting it all go in middle age — these gray hairs — like an invasive pest causing a curious interlude inside of long-time coiled friends— I’m springing off this dock — feeling the slimy cool river rocks — the sinking mushy sand — the unsettling — yet settling expanse of receiving water — so much that can’t be seen — search boat out just the other day — she takes at least one per summer season.
In here, it’s sometimes hard to know whether you’re down or up but then he smiles at me and I still see my youthful love at twenty-eight—we’re back in this 2-seated kayak and once again… he’s my life-jacket.
All right already, I’ll go clean the freaking seats.
Breathe & Be Still
© July the 10th of 2022
This is in part a response to Melissa Coffey’s prompt: Making The Familiar Unfamiliar, only I didn’t use the concept of Ostranenie. I stayed more with the interpersonal experience of when the self becomes unfamiliar within the relationship. Melissa’s intriguing prompt spoke of juxtaposition in art and I played with the juxtaposition of safety vs. loss of self within the transitional changes of life (and long-term relationships). So a bit of a different approach but the prompt was with me for the entire write.
Also carried with me throughout this write is J.D. Harms’ question: who drives you to the page? Rather surprisingly, I kept drifting back to Edna St. Vincent Millay, whom I read a lot as a young adult.
I was always struck by how her seemingly innocent lyrical poetry would drop killer existential punches. I used to wonder if her gendered experience in the 20’s had something to do with her singsongy delivery: cause you know, a woman could not be plagued by existential concerns in the 20’s.
This ostensibly simple lyrical style still resonates with me today and I think it has a lot to do with my personal and professional practice of embodying both the light and dark. As a psychotherapist I have to be the flame, which is both the flame of hope but also the flame that guides one into the dark cave.
A very big thank you to the editors of Scrittura, Melissa Coffey and J.D. Harms for igniting the creative sparks again and again… and for helping me to push past the rough drafts.
