Life in a Libretto by Rebeca Thomas
Pain Scale
- Running on the shore of San Onofre, free, the cold of
dusk on the beach. She is lulled to sleep in a dry towel.
- Waking from comfort and dreams, the sand in the
child’s bathing suit bottom is making the fabric hang…but it is still fun.
- It’s time for the training bra, not really necessary.
They look pretty in pink
- She understands cramping, and the tenderness of her
own flesh, even though it’s slight, she doesn’t know there would be more
than this
- Five can be neutral, the middle of things, the
half-way-there of things, mas o menos, mas o menos.
- Heavy breasts, lumps and bumps, the thrill of nipples
and foreplay.
- Biopsy needles, bilateral mastectomies, BRCA 1 gene
mutations, hysterectomy, oophorectomy, dreams of being a mother are
sacrificed for being here just a little bit longer.
- A searing, a burning, open wounds, fevers, vomit,
it’s time to learn a different way of breathing.
- Chemotherapy surprises, her vagina is falling out
from under her, soft skin is disintegrating along with her heart.
- Are you willing to do this again? Yes, I am. A
shorter life is ok now, quality not quantity. Choices made, ok with death,
we really didn’t have much time here anyway. I am ready. I end and I begin
again.
Backyard Bliss
listen closely
be near me
can you hear the Divine’s soliloquy?
Images delivered
to the poet who will
digest and regurgitate
Words, colors, sex, and sound
It’s here in this place
We have everything we need
We have time on the wall
it’s face torn
but the wheel still turns
We have sunrise and sunset
the clouds playing dress up in the sky
even the shadows
of eclipses
come and stay awhile
Radical Acceptance Whatever
is death a concept
or
a construct?
something we imagined
so we can keep dancing
after your shadow melts away
like a heavy hangover
the next day
making me ask
did
that really happen?
Come With Me To
The Poet’s Tree
when the image of cold plums
waiting in the ice box
brings such satisfaction
how could my enthusiasm ever wane?
when the image of a lover
waiting for me like a lonely house
deepens longing
how could this heart ever grow cold?
when tender buttons
are touched
there and there and there
how could I place myself anywhere else?
blossoms surrender
orchard of inspiration
floating down wordseed
Breathe
love is in the air
moonlight and
sunshine inhaled
it’s Neruda time
Tiny Things
When the love of today is a bad
memory
Reminding me of yesterday
When silence and loneliness tasted
good
Like when the tongue gets stuck to
a frozen pole
Outside where it’s murky because
of the fog
Swimming through the past
Of impatience
Of waiting for tomorrow’s strawberry magic
Of waiting for tomorrow and the next day
When yesterday was today
Just someplace to
Taste that feeling again
It lies in that liminal space
between here and now
Between now and then
Absolute zero
Of chaos because of entropy
Questions of Place
Where did you have sex
for the first time
with yourself?
Where did you lose yourself?
Where did you find that mojo?
Where was a part of you re-invented?
Where did you scream for help?
Where were you frozen into silence?
Where did you find your voice again?
Between Here and There
Between the cyclops privet and the St. Francis safari
Between the hunting tabby and prayer flag archway
Between popcorn leaves and bamboo piñatas
Between Hecate’s altar, the door of verses, and Led
Zeppelin's haiku
Between the colander’s eclipse and ocean’s wind
Return
Take me, my salty sea
Turn my hair into mermaid cascades
Swirling like tentacles made of feathers
Be my buoy, my strong sweet sea
Hold me loosely and mix yourself
With these tears of mine
I give them to you as my offering
Of time
Each full of a memory
Full of gratitude and pain
Sorrow and grief
Joy and bliss
Carry me upon your waves
Sweet and salty sea
So when I close my eyes
I remember what it was like
Before we were not one
It’s your heartbeat I hear now
My mother is dead
Carry me to her
So I can see her again
Sonoran Samhain
Hibernation ends after
The Arizonan season of heat
It is in the oxygen of October
We find the antidote to
Summer’s sleep apnea
Summer is behind us
What stifled has blown away
First by the dusty haboob
Then by the monsoon
That comes later every year
Dog walks in early morning
Paws comfortable on cool sidewalks
Paw-boots are not needed
To protect its soft pads
The mountain is calling in the north
The summit of my existence
Where I want my ashes to be released
And float in the wind
Settling in its sun and shadows
As I did in this life
October is calling
Inviting us to our ofrenda
Of marigolds and ancestors
Alive and dead at the same time
We take shelter in the dark half
Of the year
Under the raven’s black-as-night feathers
That brush our cheeks
Like a pillow to sink into again
Shadowspeak
Leave
me, it whispered
Don’t
leave me, it replied
Let
my essence fade away
Integrated
into the shade
of
cottonwoods and juniper
Sometimes
I’m stronger in the sun,
It
sang
On
Wednesdays, I die all over again,
It
cried
Into
the feathers of nightfall, I fly
Above
the dolman
and
into the Mystery
The Moon’s
Reflection
Wax and wane
Wax and wane
Meet her at the
crossroads
She waits for you
With her torchlight
Earth and water
Earth and water
Firmness and the
ineffable
Invoke and be the
vessel
Receive and disappear
The Beats
It starts. The beginning of an
organic bassline filling that bottom and thumping in deep vibration. Percussion
starts with a shake of maracas, drumsticks tapping in rhythm
like everyone’s right foot, synced.
Harp blows, hard and soft, winding
and bending, a runaway train that ends at the crossroads. We meet up with
Robert Johnson and dust our brooms. The vibe is transferred from decades ago
into the fingers of the lead guitarist.
We all have our eyes closed,
reeling and feeling, like a trance. Each playing on their own as if in solitude
but notes and beats marry into each. We drop them into our nation’s sack, take
a sip of jack, and carry the aftertaste with us on the road…
with the beats,
and
the beats,
and
the beats.
Under the Honey
Moon
so painfully shy
choosing to dance
anyway
let go of ego
capture the essence
of joy
decide to bloom
anyway, my wildflower
jump into the sea
with me, my love
we float and flow in
this current
the two rhythms of
one heart
Leftovers
I am the
leftover going bad in the fridge
Just waiting
here and waiting here
Lights flicker
on and off
I’m not for
everyone, I know this
But I like me
I like this
moldy smell behind my ears
This fur that’s
starting to grow on my back.
Hey, I’m still
juicy even in my old age
William Carlos
Williams wrote about me.
Yep, I’m one of
the cold
Chilled, Sweet,
Juicy plums
He left in the
icebox.
But i happened
to roll out of the bowl
And here I sit
In the dark
In
the coolness
In the corner
Transforming… in
sludge
Love the sludge,
Love the slime
Love everything
that
Breaks you down
Into what you
are meant to be
Use it to
refine you
Because in the
end
Leftovers are
important too
And always
Tastier The NextDay
A
Moment
A
pinch of sadness
Flavors
my thoughts
Leaving
me with a
Savory
Aftertaste
As
if my tears were
Used
to Season these feelings
They’re
too hard to swallow otherwise
Chagallology
You’ve
made me so happy
If
I bat my eyelashes
I
think I’ll fly us
Into
the sunset
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