clippings

amongst the clinking of silverware

and broken french,

there is a connection.

a woman bruised.

battered.

not physically. but mentally.

mon mari

my husband

she calls him.

as if he is still there.

sitting on his chair, untouched in the corner.

as if he still greets her everyday.

as if he never got sick.

as if he never died.

i search her eyes for sorrow.

the kind of sorrow a widow might carry

even years after the early parting

but she is slow to make eye contact and

i cannot blame her.

eyes say too much.

it is best we stay on this grounded area

of silence

of quiches and talks of gardens.

we can both rest at night knowing we understand each other.

maybe not linguistically.

but there is something larger, deeper, and real

that pulls us in even if we refuse.

and when we part

we say

à bientôt

see you soon

neither of us likes permanents farewells.

*****

my super heroine

my hero wears rubber boots

and plaid

on sunny days, she wears a wide-brimmed hat.

she was never one for tanning

she has no weapons.

only garden tools

she is strong

yet kind

she is naive

and wants to believe in the good

yet is acutely aware of the bad

her moto

is simple

make soil, not war

she will save the world.

or maybe, she won't.

but she will feed one under-nourished soul at a time,

and that political act, will be enough.

******

it was 1986, she says.

we were thick into fighting for women's reproductive rights.

it is 2012, i say.

we are thick into fighting for women's reproductive rights.

to make sure women have access to contraception

to make sure these women are not called sluts

to make sure men take the onus for their role in heterosexual sex

to make sure that mother can birth at home

at a hospital

at a birthing centre

where ever her contractions take her.

it seems exhausting.

and it is.

but i refuse to stop.