they tore it down

i wrote this a good long while ago. sometime in the summer, when they were re-doing that park behind the baskin robbins factory. the 'you' is one of my best friends, and she's got a couple poems directed to her already. but hey, sometimes you just find someone that works to write to. my grandmother had als. her body slowed right down until, on monday, november 15th, it stopped entirely. she was, by far, one of the most tenacious and powerful women i've ever known, and like every twenty something, i spent far too much of my life not appreciating her. when she left, she was surrounded by her family. then they all drank toasts to her and cut out jam labels. i was really sad not to be there.

they tore it down
and you watched
we had nothing with which to arm ourselves
but we could still imagine
what we could've built
like my grandmother
whose hands
once spry
can still imagine catching fish
in creek water

i fought that tearing down
and many other things
the way i fought my parents
knowing in the end
they'd always get me in that
frilly fucking dress
knowing i'd always eat
my goddamn potatoes
when all i wanted really
was sunshine liberation
and a dash of moonglow

i left this fight
like those fights
just thinking i could choose
some other battleground
but it was just another way
they didn't let me win

because we can't choose when to care
about the wild branches we used to stare at
about the swings that seemed so perfect
for every midmorning pontification

they tore it down
and you watched
plotting the sly subversion
of the nighttime
sneaking answers out of uncertain navigation
nursing art heroics out of their irresponsibility
the way my grandmother
painted over his old practice desk
changing cherry wood to the colour of
lacquered earwax
like all the listening he didn't do

we watch them tear it down
prepare the soil for burial
without ritual or respect
watch dysfunction boil like blisters
bide our time and wait

the way i waited
stashed the sharpest scissors in my room
found the right moment
to tear my way
out of their way
out of that 40$ floral vomit
of a little girl's dress

for i was no little girl
and that was no mere swingset
and she was no doctor's wife
we were and are the sorry rebels
fighting the limitations of our form
finding ways to be seen
without lenses
without language
plying adaptation like wit
making our own tools
out of their own garbage

she will never know again
the writhing power of that fish she caught so fast
her hands the victor
but i will always know
the rumbling joy of my awe
at her strength

her hands are still strong
but her throat
unpracticed
seems to falter

now her will replaces hands
whose strength shocked me
when i was no little girl
falling off no mere swing set

now her will is by my own
and your own
as we sigh
staring at the space where a tree was
where dappled sunlight spattered dogs like paint drops
hid our kisses
stored secret messages

i would have her hands once more
to tear their machines apart
the way she peeled potatoes
or applied my sunscreen as rough as
all the world
like she knew i needed toughness
more than dresses

she knew i needed toughness more than dresses
like we need wilderness more than tarmac
like we need swing sets more than art
like i need her voice more than my own hands now
because these things
are going away
too fast

[if i had been there... if i had been around more before... i'd have read her this and that poem about the little heart that i read for the national slam competition. i'd tell her how sorry i was for fighting family visits tooth and nail. i'd tell her how strong she always seemed and how every layer i scraped off that practice desk made me feel closer to her and what kind of frustration she experienced. i'd tell her how much i wish i'd had the time and care to really hear her stories, to ask her for more, to really look in her eyes and be honest about who i am. if i had been there, i would've cleaned the tears under her son's eyes and made sure he knew i loved him and that i'd be there for him. i'd apologize for how i treat my body and i'd admire how she always treated hers to live this long and be so strong the whole time. i'd remind her about the time she broke her hip on the face of ottawa's winters and dragged herself to help with those sturdy arms. i'd tell her i love her and maybe try to picture some kinda heaven for her, even though we've never really bought into that kinda shit. because the idea of her just ending is shitty and horrible and no wonder people believe in that fairy tale. but really, the fairy tales she'd believe in would be grimm's, so maybe i'll just start seeing her in frogs and fish. and i wonder what stories she grew up with and i don't know anything about her family really. and now i really wish i could handle talking to my own mother without wanting to vomit with fear and memories and i hate what's happened to me and i really hope nothing like that happened to grandmother. and i remember that time she was babysitting me and peter and stormed out the front door and down the driveway and i thought she was leaving for good. and if i was with her, i would've told her how i've been on the other side of that now, and i understand the frustration and the need to get as far away from the offending child as possible in order to keep your cool. and i'd laugh with her about how crazy we must've driven her. and i'd forgive her for calling me fat when i was a teenager. i mean, i was, but that's not the point. i'd forgive her. and i'd probably be honest with her about how much smoking has helped me lose weight, and apologize, again, for not respecting my body at all. and i'd let her know that i'm gonna start respecting the endless life of tea towels and styrofoam and socks.]