Authoritah!

"Excuse me, do you have children?"
I still can't get used to that question. I whip my head both sides until I remember that one child is no longer mine* and the other is safely at preschool, and then answer, "yes."
I am in the aisle at SuperPharm, Israel's version of CVS / Walgreen's/whatever it's called out West. A woman thrusts two different boxes of pacifiers at me, and much as I am programmed to heel and froth whenever a woman thrusts two of anything at me, I shut my mouth and look up. She's twenty-something, and looks way too alert to be a mother. Something about getting enough sleep in the night.
"I need your help. A two-day old little boy. What's better?"
She's gotta be kidding me. Two days old and she looks like that? My eyebrows nudge my hairline out of existence. She apparently picks up on this, and shakes her head: "it's not for me. It's for a friend." (Silly me, I thought the "friend" excuse in drugstores was only for condoms or vaginal suppositories. )

I point out the box in her left hand, saying "those are really good for infants who are also breastfeeding." Then I get a look at the box in her right, and say: "those are the kind my children used."
And that about sums it up: there are no answers, but people will never stop asking. Once something's shot out of your vagina and sucked your boobs dry, you apparently become an undisputed authority on child-rearing, especially if you are trolling the store alone and nobody can witness how you smack your kid around in the candy aisles. As if there's a great divide of wisdom you cross once you go into labor. As I discovered during my own pregnancy, if there is any change in your brain, it's for the worse. IQ points trickle out with every hormone-tear, culminating in that final deluge of your water breaking, when you lose them by the liter and are overcome with babbling idiocy for one to three months**.

Having a baby is a huge experience in trial and error. No two babies are the same, even when they come from the same gene pool. The learning curve is huge, and when you take into account the fact that in the first few weeks of parenthood, you are learning about thirty different skill sets you'd never thought you'd need (or more, if you live in Tel Aviv and also need to navigate sidewalks with a Bug-a-Boo), it's understandable that you are desperate enough to ask advice from a total stranger. Even if that stranger is someone so disheveled and worse-for-wear from lack of sleep that you'd think twice about asking them the time, not to mention what's best for your child. But remember, there's no correct answer. Just trial and error. You eventually figure it out, buying three types of everything until one works or none do. I have never asked strangers for advice. But then again, I have only recently started sleeping the nights through and my 22-month old decides what we watch on TV.

I smile sympathetically at the young woman and turn to leave, when I hear her call out: "How are you on breastfeeding?"

*Lesbian divorce sucks.
**This depends, to a great extent, on your partner, your initial status, and your penchant for self-medication.

But the air

Caught between in- and exhale
my throat a hoarse rusty-runged ladder of ruin
the air climbs struggles falters, then lapses
a weak puff emerges-
and tears run for their lives.

a little sandy-haired boy
who trusted me to no end
a woman blue-eyed and pale-
and I'm left again.

these are the fragments I scrabble at blindly
as I pant up that ladder towards light, towards freedom
my fingernails bleeding, metal flaking, arms shaking
if these are those fragments, I'd rather be blind.

but the air asks you not for permission or existence
pushing out in mere mockery of any free will
my escape from the darkness is similarly mindless
with no memory of starting, it will never desist.

so the sheets twist about me, cotton no consolation
as sleep taunts me, obnoxious: "maybe next time, we'll meet"
but I can't stop my mind, that enraging projector
constant flicker of torment: "just stop," I entreat.

but the air elbows up pumping brain-feeding oxygen
and the shrapnel of images flies through the dark
my mind pummels on; as I grasp at one feebly
a vicious laughter is heard; I could hear its cruel bark.

"Just stop," I whisper into the pillow,
"I don't know what I feel, what this is called,
but I'm breathing- which I didn't ask for, by the way-
There's gotta be a name for this somewhere," I venture,
my hands searching in vain only grasp at thin air.

and the bluey-eyed boy,
(can I save him from helpless?)
and the woman I caught glimpse of
(will she ever stay still?)
they are caught in my throat
between rungs of definition
at once stuck and elusive;
that's the progress I've made.

but the air is a fighter, last to go, it still hitches
up and down jagged edges and it saws my throat raw
all is locked in the space between chest and expression
except the tears, which I silently cheer in their escape.

Supermarket

Damn, I lost the list. Gonna have to wing it
lulling elevator music's on, my brain is gonna sing it
all day - hey there's a bargain on pettiness
at the fresh feelings counter, buy 2 for 1 reckless desire
(drama club holders only).
goddamn it, where is it?
Cans of hate, lividity, longing, lust
revenge will be in frozen goods
that baby's screaming woman! give him some humor, it's cheap
excuse me 10 items or less - god i wish - is clarity on sale today?
i'll take a sack of longing, what the hell, it doesn't spoil
and some french desire and friendship for the weekend;
they've got my brand of cold here, i smile with approval
fuck i can't find oblivion anywhere.

Smell

there's a smell in my house and it's crazing me slowly
I'm growing a tail as we speak
I circle around it, my nostrils full flare
it won't let me forget me -
this bitch is in heat.

a little bottle she sold me, she smiled at me, knowing
it reads 'french musk', sits harmlessly on the piano
two sticks dipped inside it, they tease me, inviting
breasts heaving, groin grinding-
the music's so sweet.

I said 'hey, I'll be one of those fine-fingered ladies
who keep scents for room ambiance in a ribbon-wrapped glass'
and unwittingly brought home this storm in a bottle
hot breathing, hair sweating-
my lust is replete.

I sniff at the bottle, carefully, meekly-
I want her naked armpits wrapped around my neck her thighs around my stomach corner of her jaw in my mouth as we suck on skin together breathing hotly fingers kneading tongues competing-the one in the park the one in the supermarket the pregnant neighbor who sways on her tree the one on tv the one with the sexy voice on the radio the one on the bus the one just before me the mother of three who is never unfazed-
that smell is so cleanwoman and I slink off like a slug
leave behind me a glistening trail of desire
lungs sighing, head swimming
I confess my defeat.