Lisa Moak

Santa lives down the street from me.
He drives a white Kia.
I know it’s Santa
because his name is painted on his car
in sweeping red cursive.
I see Santa around town,
like in the waiting room at the dentist’s office.
I wanted to tell him my wishes,
but he never looked up from his magazine,
and I was too afraid to sit on his lap.

Santa has a garden behind his home.
it’s a lovely place,
with a greenhouse
and brightly colored raised beds.
I wonder what he’s growing?
Food for the elves and reindeer?
Maybe he’s cultivating peace and joy?
I wonder if that’s how he stays so jolly.

Santa lives down the street,
but this isn’t the north pole.
There’s no magic and it hardly
ever snows.
Winter is coming though.
It started with a sprinkling of symptoms,
sleet mixed with sorrow,
and now— a flurry of fear.
Please, please, Santa
can you spare us some cheer?

It’s a lot to ask, I know.
My wishes are bigger
than your sled can carry,
but do you have some holiday magic to spare?
Can you wrap me up in that big, red coat and tell
me it’s going to be okay?
You see it’s awfully dark out
and there’s a shortage of fairy tales.

we will not rest tonight,
the city pulses like an angry heart,
a vibrating, humming hive
swarming, billowing like smoke,
with stings as sharp as glass,
uncontrolled,
unconfined,
a genie loosed
cannot easily be put back,
nothing can coerce
the return to quiet when
one has discovered the wilds
of the undone,
blurred lines, broken boundaries,
where chaos and rage reign,
there’s no going back
to tameness now,
that we’ll never do again

It’s like we’ve
always been here
locked in a circle
of deja vu.

Waking, the only
difference in night
or day, but still
all the same.

Same walls,
same window,
same faces inside
looking out.

This is our home,
our shelter,
the place we
become us.

But our
safe places
became our
new cages.

Time – the thing we
normally lack –
shoved down
our throats

choking us,
stealing the air,
until we give in
to breathe as one

synced to the sound
of a tiny hand
ticking slowly, so slowly
around the same
empty dial.

Desperation isn’t always
found in dark places.
Sometimes it lurks
in sunshine and sand.

It smells of salt air, fish
and Coppertone
instead of cigarettes
and booze.

It’s not a destination
as much as a spot
in your heart
or a corner in your head.

Key West is an island
at the bottom of America.
Shake us up and we all
land at the bottom somewhere.

Lay in the sun too long
and you burn.
Scratch an itch
until it becomes infected.

Cause a feeding frenzy
with a drop of blood.
Bury your head
in the sand if you must,

but please
whatever you do,
don’t let the land sharks
find you alone.

When love was new,
each heart beat raw,
every breath
pulsed red,

and you wrote
poetry with
lines oozing
sticky sweet.

School days filled with
bubble gum kisses,
tear drop hearts and
breathy talks behind bleachers.

When it looked
like life itself was beginning
and ending with one word
one touch, one look,

and adults said
things like
“you’re too young
to know love.”

Disco ball nights,
pink petals and baby’s breath
fell like confetti on
crowded dance floors.

Then he danced
with someone new
as you embraced
the last song – alone.

Pain pulsed
in your ears
sounding like
deep divers gulps,

and your heart
slowly melted
sending droplets
to your toes

then adults patted your hand
repeating shallow words
you couldn’t comprehend
about fish and the sea.

I don’t know the day it happened
nor the time
I only know
I had a dream
and then one day
it was gone.

Was it age
or busyness, I do not know
when I grew up
lost my childhood
and became
old.

Me who was
is not
me who is,
when did the laughter fade?

Was it pain
failure
or loss
that took the dream
the youth
the me,
and buried them away?

the house was too big
too empty

it echoed
her loneliness

with each reverberation
louder was the pain

it shook her
like a child shaking his jacks

before he throws them
to the ground

she rattled about
bouncing off walls

and bumped her head
a time or two

but nothing changed
the house did not grow smaller

or her emptiness lessen
and she wondered

if it even mattered
how large the house is

to people
who are alone

These are the days we dread, the days of unknowing. Life is fragile as an egg. You never know when a crack will appear and the yolk will spill away. Your test came back—wrong. We wait, more tests are done, more waiting. The longer we wait the more scenarios we concoct, dreaming about dark tumors flooding organs, masses teeming with life waiting to erupt. We google, we ask, we read, still we wait. Your smile has left as you turn your light inside searching for answers, questioning what you ate, drank, or smoked in the past. “I am healthy, or so I thought,” the sadness in your voice apparent. You feel betrayed. You run, you do yoga, eat sensibly, watch your weight and drink in moderation, but now this organ inside mocks you. You can’t see or feel it. You only have heard of it and its rebellion. The phone doesn’t ring today.
We wait.

You, regard in disbelief,
shifting your feet like a bird testing its wings,
the ticket agent who says,
“At 15 you are old enough to fly alone.”

You, fumble anxiously
with belt and shoes,
while the line ahead shuffles and moans,
and I walk beside holding your passport.

You, stare over my head
at the empty tarmac, enduring this too.
“Flying alone must be hard,”
the gate attendant worries.
She has a daughter your age,
but her worries are not for you.

You, tired and annoyed,
ask, “Why don’t you just go?”
Mothers don’t leave,
you must have forgotten
all the days and nights
I have remained.

Boarding begins.

You, offer me your arms,
spread wide, embracing things to come
while I cling to those familiar.
Then, off you march,
grasping your suitcase,
backpack flung across your back,
towards the dusky doorway,

and don’t look back.

I wave good-bye
to no one.