Love Your Flesh

this American Sentence was inspired by the outraged reaction of someone (in the 1^st of the following paragraphs), after I said that losing 35 lbs. (safely) would be difficult and it would take months

Before Crohn’s disease began controlling my diet, I used to host a yearly nutrition and exercise challenge. I stopped when what I ate (and how I ate it) became too specific to me to work well for another—not without serious tweaking. Then, last week, a friend sent me this: “I’m freaking out. The doctor says I have colitis, food I’ve always eaten makes me sick now, and I can’t fit in my fat pants. Help!”

My friend, Mr. Drama Queen, has a long history of not sticking to anything involving him having to give up something he likes. If you’ve been reading me for a while, you might remember him as the guy who asked me to give up coffee for a year in order to keep him company while he gave up smoking. I went a whole year without my magic brew, just to find out that he kept puffing when I wasn’t looking. 

I was tempted to remind him about his quit smoking fiasco. But just hours after I got his message, my Boy called me to say, “I am fat.” My sweet Boy sounded so dejected (and dumbfounded, by the fact that too much eating and too little exercising was affecting his weight) that I burst into laughter. I know… I am a terrible woman. Then, the next day, my big Brother messaged me to say that his blood pressure was too high and his belly too big and he really needed to lose weight.

Since my Crohn’s is currently stable, and 3 people in my life wish to improve their eating and exercise habits, and since I could lose a pound or 19, I thought it was time for another food and fitness challenge. I’m calling it “13 31 Weeks of Pseudo-Intermittent Fasting; or, Bring on the Bone Broth”. And I’ll tell you all about it in future posts. 😉

photo by Nick Fewings, on Unsplash

- for Poets and Storytellers United--Weekly Scribblings #85: “Take care of your body”.

My Ink and Your Feels

We dance in a garden of ink and feels, plant words out of dreams our wants make real. Your patience puts a gentle hand on the small of my back. My eyes are fixed on your mouth (sipping, sipping, sipping… all the truths your tongue spills)

and our hearts are naked, exposed to all

who dare to look (and see)

my ink and your feels spelling

poems and stories grown out of our flesh and bone (for all souls).

photo borrowed from House of Hawthornes

 for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (13 Poetic Bits of Kerry: this piece includes the line “our hearts are naked”, from Kerry’s poem Atlantis Found). I shall also link this piece to Poets United (Pantry of Poetry and Prose #8)

Mouthless; or, an Interactive Retelling of The Little Mermaid

Watching him through a wet veil, she thought, He’s perfect. So, the decision to exchange her voice for his touch wasn’t difficult to make. Not while his tongue warmed her blood.

They had some good days, better nights.

No, there was no happily anything. Mouthless girls rarely get an ever after. They get foam, unless_____________.

Yes, that “unless__________” is an invitation to change the mouthless girl’s fate. An invitation which you, of course, don’t have to accept. But if you do, then I would love to read your ending to this retelling in the comments. 

detail, from “Morning Walk”, a photo by Mario Azzi - on Unsplash

this interactive retelling (which I’m linking to Poets United Pantry of Poetry and Prose #7) was inspired by the frothy water in two of Kerry O’Connor’s paintings

Once Upon a Fall…

out of the shadows,

I shall grow a word forest

to un-shade our feels

when oaks go naked,

I wrap myself in the scent

of fresh lavender

once upon a fall,

my eyes heard a stump screaming

of New York squirrels

for Poets United Pantry of Poetry and Prose #6

Pushed

She put her Self in their hands.

They made a fist.

She pushed against their hold, bit through finger bone with her teeth, and turned the screaming into wings.

art by Shelle Kennedy

- for Poets United Pantry of Poetry and Prose #5

Behind Her Self-Crafted Collection of Masks…

“Because true belonging only happens when we present our authentic, imperfect selves to the world, our sense of belonging can never be greater than our level of self-acceptance.” – Brené Brown

Through a mask

she speaks to all

of authenticity.

And I wonder,

what does her tongue know

of mirrors?

Can a muffled ear feel

truth that lies

outside its own skull?

“Do you know? Can you feel?”

No response parted her lips, but

her rage was sweet

behind her self-

crafted collection of masks…

honest and violent.

the wee notes…

- this is my frankensteining of two poems (a cherita and a stitched blackout) I shared on Instagram. You can see the originals (which were posted about 3 months apart) here and here. The cherita was my response to an earlier prompt.

- my muse and I have been organizing words (and procrastinating), so it’s likely that the rest of 2019 will bring more frankensteined pieces. And if we are very lucky the organizing (and editing and rewriting) will turn into a book for 2020. 🤞🏽

- for Poets United Pantry of Poetry and Prose #4, Rommy’s first hosting (Welcome home, my “tea-adoring, music-appreciating, witchy-flavored, nerd extraordinaire” friend!).

What I Know Now: Letter to My Pre-Breast Cancer Diagnosed Self

Dear Two-Breasted Magaly,

June is as hot as jalapeños in a Sahara mood, and you’ve just received a breast cancer diagnosis. You aren’t scared. You aren’t crying. You are no stranger to serious illness. Still, I must warn you that this flesh-eating beast is going to be different from any other disease-demon you’ve had to kick in the teeth before.

No, I am not talking about the riot of side effects breast cancer treatment will brew (what you’ve read on the topic is brutally accurate: it is going to hurt, it is going to alter your flesh and bones, it’s going to seriously suck for a while). This disease will change your feelings towards certain social concepts (i.e. labels such as “breast cancer warrior”, wearing the pink ribbon).

Right now, you understand that calling oneself breast cancer warrior and wearing a pink ribbon are creative ways to fight against something too ugly to face fully uncloaked. You might be partially correct. But I’m writing this letter—13 months after your breast died so that I could live—to share with you what I know now: I claim the label and wear the ribbon because awareness is a caring weapon most warriors are grateful to show and tell.

Unconditional Love (and 13 fistfuls of my liveliest cackles),

Magaly

So, there is a chance that I was not all that thrilled about going to the hospital.

 And it rained on me.

 But then, the sun came out to shine on autumn leaves (and me).

the wee notes…

- the title (and part of the post) was inspired by my reading of What I know Now: Letters to My Younger Self, edited by Ellyn Spragins

- for Poets United Pantry of Poetry and Prose #3

Spark

“No.”

Her word was a minuscule spark in a vast ocean of shouting men. None but the farmer and the seamstress, sitting to her right and to her left, noticed that a sound had crossed her lips. The men occupying the dais seemed beyond reach.

“If we cut him, he will lose too much blood to stay conscious,” the head of The Council said. “He burned our barn. We should burn him until he reveals where the rest of his horde is hiding.”

She raised a hand. The farmer and the seamstress did the same. The council failed to see them.

“Burning is as inefficient as cutting,” the Security Chief said. “He might get an infection before we get what we need out of him. Partial drowning will break—”

“No.”

Slowly, the council began to quiet… until the room was completely silent. Not because the men had heard her, but because she had left the back of the room, walked past the landowners, past the merchants, past the families of the councilmen, and was now standing next to the metal folding chair that held the gagged prisoner. The seamstress and the farmer had followed her to the front. Others had followed them, too.

“This is Council business, my dear woman.” The head of The Council smiled. “I’m sure—”

Whatever he was sure of was consumed by a united, “No!” that got louder and louder as more of the people continued to chant their outrage.

The man on the folding chair would pay for the arson. But there would be no torture. Her people were better than that, even if a handful of old men had made them forget for a time.   

for Poets United Pantry of Poetry and Prose #2

If I Had Been Kafka’s Gregor Samsa

“As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.” – Franz Kafka

I have not been able to read a printed book on the train for some years now. My hands and arms and I can’t quite manage holding a book, in the needed position, without significant pain. Flipping through the pages of a book was my favorite thing to do while commuting… When the pain forced me to make a change, I started people hearing while riding.

People hearing is just like people watching, but with eavesdropping included. I’m not talking about spying or trying to overhear other people’s precious secrets. No, I wouldn’t enjoy that. I am referring to letting my ear near conversations others might be having on the bus, in line to pay for groceries, at the airport…   

Yesterday, while riding the 1 (the 1 train, that is) from Manhattan to The Bronx, my people hearing curiosity and I were served several treats:

- a woman with two dogs, said to one of the pups, “If you’re mommy’s very good girl, and you pee on that asshole’s rug, mommy will give you bacon.” I never found out who the asshole was.

- a very old man (no, he didn’t have enormous wings), told an invisible friend, “Cut your nails when they’re looking. Hit them in the eye. Hard in the eye. That’ll stop it.” I’m still wondering about the identity of the ‘it’ that needs stopping.

- a girl told her companion, “If I’d been the Gregor guy, I would’ve eaten my whole family. Some assholes deserve to be eaten.” I’m quite glad to inform you that I wasn’t the only people hearer who shook with laughter at the imaginative teenage girl’s cannibalistic choice of imagery.

It’s very likely that I will never stop missing the joy of reading a paper book while riding the bus or train. But I am grateful for the unexpected (and rather uncanny) gift that came out of the change. Now, if my skull and I could only get rid of the image of a teenage roach devouring the unsightliest of familial meals.

via

 - linked to the Interactive Moonlight Musings, over at Poets United, where my favorite person in the whole wide world, invites everyone to write an article (in 369 words or fewer) inspired by the Positive Side of Change.

The Pink Knight

In my home, October is New York Comic Con. It’s knee-high boots and pumpkin chili. It’s stories of loved ones no longer living. It’s skulls, cosplay, and wonder. October is black.

I wasn’t thinking those exact words, as my Piano Man and I strolled around the Javits Center, but I was feeling them deeply. Then, a hint of pink caught my eye.

“Look, babe!” I said, picking a pink figurine out of a display, and holding it right next to my delighted grin. “It’s Batman, the breast cancer fairy.”

“That makes it sound like Batman brings breast cancer to people, and…” my Piano Man began to say, but seemed to change his mind halfway. “Well, I guess the tooth fairy takes teeth and leaves money. Maybe Batman takes tumors and leaves—”

“Life and laughter and bad-ass fairy dust?” I asked, gently shaking Batman above my head, making sure all the fighting dust landed on my chemo-thinned hair.

Then my Piano Man and I kissed, before adding The Pink Knight to our October.

In my home, October is New York Comic Con. It’s knee-high boots and pumpkin chili. It’s stories of loved ones no longer living. It’s skulls, cosplay, and wonder. October is black and pink and fierce.

Batman, the Breast Cancer Fairy

  bits from Instagram

- love the girls, girl, chest wall

- truth is a wonder

* scroll up to see the captions

 linked to Pantry of Poetry and Prose #1: October Is Here… (Join us!)