Pretty Little Girl

Smocked dresses, lace, and curls
blurred Sundays are broken-record memories
"What a pretty little girl!" they'd say
like my appearance was something achieved

Mama'd change the subject
to something I'd actually influenced
like my role in the children's play
or the elaborate stories I'd written

"Pretty little girl"
my adored eyes would shift
suddenly intrigued
by the buckle on my shoe

Mama's grip said "be polite"
choking the social norm from my hand
But Mama's eyes apologized
as she witnessed me realize
where society found my worth

What happens to pretty little girls
when the smocked dresses don't fit
when they trade bows for bras
when the broken record finally breaks?

First, they crumble
blindly grasping for the pieces
the pieces that once built them
with an unwritten expiration

An identity once balancing
on a tower of cards
blown over by the same force
that built it

It seems pretty little girls
can grow up to be anything
doctors, teachers, writers
and mothers

That apology I saw
in Mama's emerald eyes
was for her loosening grip
on the shield of my innocence

Eyes wet with experience,
she caught me when I crumbled
and showed me my pieces
I had long devalued

I always wondered how she knew
But I guess that's what happens
when pretty little girls
raise pretty little girls.

Mourning a Companion

Tears stained my homework as my mother’s voice wriggled and gasped on the other line. I didn’t try to clean them. I didn’t try to stop. You see, when someone dies, tears are the only thing left you can give them.
So I gave her everything I had.
In the past, I thought death was something you wanted to get over, like the flu. I thought mourning was doing everything you could to get okay again. But that’s not it at all.
Mourning is searching through old voicemails to get a glimpse of their voice again.
Mourning is scavenging through old pictures to memorize every detail of their face and the texture of their hair.
Mourning is lying down, eyes closed, desperately trying to recall the last thing you said to them, ignoring the tears that fight through your eyelids, streaming, pooling in the crevices of your ears.

When it’s a pet, you wonder if they were in pain. Did they know they were dying?

Days go by and you don’t vacuum. You don’t lint roll your clothes. The dog hair isn’t annoying anymore because it’s the last tangible part of them you have left. When you get home from work, there’s no howling anthem to welcome you. How do you unload the groceries without a nose inspection first?

But you’ll get another dog. You know you will. And that makes you feel guilty. How will I rationalize giving this puppy Millie’s old spot in the bed? How is it fair that I compare this puppy to Millie? The dog who loved me through puberty, mean girls, break ups, break downs, and everything in between?

I’ll get another dog for the same reason I got Millie. Dogs aren’t simply companions who can’t speak. They teach us unconditional love. They teach us how to listen. Most importantly, dogs teach us that loving with our actions is so much more genuine than words could ever express. Every day you left them for school or work and the first thing you got when you came home was their favorite toy, dangling from their vibrating body. Can you imagine if humans loved so much that they offered away their most prized possession at every sight of a loved one?

Adding a new companion after one dies doesn’t erase the old one. It’s a new relationship with new journeys, new quirks, and new lessons. I miss Millie and I always will. She’ll always keep her place in my heart; but that doesn’t mean my heart can’t grow to make room for another. And maybe that's the lesson behind owning pets after all - to make our hearts grow.

Dedicated to Millie Lamar Johnson, my “Snickle Pickle Girl”

It wasn't that I stopped loving you

I just started loving myself more

-past due

Artfully (x_____________)

when a friend says they read a poem that resembled you

that's the best kind of compliment

to be recognized in art

means your soul carries perceivable beauty clearer than an appearance

as clear as words on a page

Love Language

you carry my bags plus your own

I carry a purse

this is your way of saying "I love you"

Grasping Someday

you'll find your name
in the margins of my lecture notes
over and over
linked to the end of mine
because it's the only taste
of Someday
that I can feel with my hands