Mentally I’m Here by Maverick L. Malone
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I am not here
spine cracked more than a book from the discard pile
hunched over keyboard letters that must pound out words
like procedure, reconciliation, balance sheet.
I am not here
widened glazed-donut eyes hungering for the breakfast
of sunshine and green beyond the ghost of glass
separating me from feasting on my future.
I am not here
thrashing kestrel that I am, bound
by everything man-made, watching everything’s that’s not
reach directly for god, every other bird
becoming sky-acrobat on some destined trajectory
towards open country, farmland, forest clearing.
I am not here
clockwatching like a hollowed-out housewife
who’s forgotten what good sex feels like:
faster. Let’s get it over with.
I am here
claws out and upside down
in the solitude of a woodland cottage,
my secrets spilling and crystallizing into words.
I am here
terribly strumming Billy Joel on a sleek guitar
I decided to learn to play the moment I picked her up
because such an incredible thing exists, these things exist,
and like so much in this world, has never been properly loved
in the way it deserves, for exactly what it is.
I am here
worshipping fire and breathing dragons
back into the mouth of an Icelandic volcano
that must have given some part of itself to me
hundreds of lives ago.
I am here
at Devil’s Bridge becoming the brutal beauty
of a living painting, peering through the watercolor eye
like a monocle that proves perception
is absolutely a kind of quiet and miraculous magic.
I am here
preserving the sea people of Borneo on film and in poems
as they spear fish and free dive in wooden goggles.
I am here
buttering croissants in a Paris apartment as my lover
butters my thighs with his tongue
and we fall in love all over again.
I am here
on a stage reaching for the audience,
arms hung like a welcome home sign,
inviting them into the documentary of my life.
I am here
in the velvet cascade of night so dark they can only call pitch,
whispering wants of what I can only call
raw desire, a soul’s calling, purpose.
“Go ahead,” I dare. “Make a mess of me.”
Wife, mother, picket fence.
For the longest time, I thought these would be the pinnacle of my success. It was what had always been impressed upon me.
My mother spent her days caring for my brother and I, doing her best to keep things ship-shape and spic-and-span despite the obvious chaos that children bring. When we got older, she started an online business sourcing the most beautiful vintage dresses at estate sales and would sell them on eBay but never held a traditional job – at least not since I’ve been around. No, that was my dad, the admirable, dutiful, and proud Leo providing for his family.
As he aged, I would watch him come home tired and exhausted but nevertheless still cheerful. He would walk through our back door and greet us in a bear hug as my mother toiled away – chopping, mixing, basting – in the kitchen heady with the rich scent of roasting meet simmering in merlot.
My dad worked well past 65, majority of those for the same billion-dollar conglomerate, before he finally exhaled into retirement, his hands raised to high heaven as if to say, “Thank god. I’m finally free.” Said global corporation crowned his lifelong commitment with a hat and his choice of some other impersonal trinket plucked from a catalogue.
My childhood was steady, stable, privileged.
While we were not rich by any means, we did enjoy the occasional beach vacation (usually tacked on to a visit to the grandparents at their retirement community in Delray, back when my love affair with Florida was first budding). There was plenty of food on the table, including the latest variety of Little Debbies or other novelty snack. There were new clothes and supplies for each school year. There was always a paycheck in the mail. It was…predictable. This, I thought, was to be my future.
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