Life, Love, Poetry, Writing

Motherfucker

Why must you be a child all the time?

With those dark, knowing eyes

and just-five-more-minutes-please smile.

Can’t you see that I’m tired?

I don’t have the time to play with you.

Maybe Tanya and Tina let you get away with it

but I’m not one of your little friends.

Yet you still try to sneak your way into my bed

When will you outgrow this phase?

Creeping fingers caught in the cookie jar and all my

spilled milk.

‘Mama, how much longer you gonna make me wait?’

You know I hate it when you call me mama.

I don’t have the time to nurse you, burp you, or change you.

 

— Janine Serioux

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Life, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

Self-care For the End of the World

  • 2 cups Epsom salt
  • 1/4 cup baking soda
  • 2 tablespoons dried lavender
  • 2 teaspoons olive oil
  • 5 drops peppermint oil

Stir to combine.

 

Fill a tub,

a bucket,

a sink,

a bowl,

a glass,

a thimble,

with water as warm as you can stand.

Pour in the salt

and stir.

Submerge your body

and soak

until your fingers prune

and the water clouds

with your doubt,

fears,

and anxiety.

 

Touch

every inch of the body

that was given to you by someone else

but is yours now.

 

(If you have a pumice stone,

now would be a good time

to slough off

those chips that have been weighing down your shoulders

and rid yourself

of all your

dead skin).

 

Pull the stopper from the tub

or sink.

Pour the water from the bucket,

bowl,

glass,

or thimble.

 

Say goodbye.

 

Rinse.

 

— Janine Serioux

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Life, Love, Poetry, Writing

Auto-parturition

One evening I lay in the bathtub and give birth to myself. near drowning in a pool of a lifetime of my mother’s tears; purified and desalinated, strained through the marrow of my grandmother’s bones, with a drop of my father’s blood, the water chilled by his distance. hands strange and familiar come from surprising distance to rub my shoulders raw with encouragement and rejection. my lover’s fingers curl playfully around my throat and gently push my head under water but I struggle to the surface every time and breathe anew. slow and steady like they said to. my distended belly bobs, sweet amorphous cumulus. Every gasp ragged with indecision and humbling fear. I will carry this sense to term.

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Life, Love, Poetry, Writing

Wrath

When he was wrong
(which was more often than not)
He turned my lap into an alter,
Tonguing out his prayers of gratitude
For my mercy and grace.
He thanked me for my constancy;
That I did not forsake him,
Though he was undeserving
And for forgiving his sins,
While knowing he would sin again.
I heard his prayers
With the serenity of the ocean
And stroking his head,
Answered in the one language he could not understand
(Love)
“Vengeance
is mine.”

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