Claire Scott

Another Depressed Poem

My therapist says I have Unearned Depression
no life wrecking events
never locked in closets or deprived of dinners
(if Dinty Moore Beef Stew qualifies as dinner)
no uncles with wandering hands
or babysitters with sadistic knitting needles
I have fumbled through all five stages of grief
reaching a wobbly acceptance
of my disinterested subpar parents
a mother sloshed on scotch, a father who looked away

But last night at a saturated Friday bar
boozing it up with a sexy scientist
I learned that 68% of the universe
is dark energy (pulling us apart) and 27% is dark matter
(kind of like gravity), leaving only a scant
5% for everything else
     such as us
     such as the scraggly rose bush we love
     such as lemon meringue pie
living in a world of god’s leftovers

I didn’t go home with the sexy scientist
but I now know that dark matter will lose
the tug of war
the universe will ever expand
like molecules of air when heated
     his Indie rock to my classical CDs
     his sailing trips to my backpacking
     his love of meat to my plate of broccoli
two wasted people drifting apart
like the stars, like the planets
and by the way, my therapist is wrong
my depression is Well Earned

Naming

Once upon a time
there was an elephant in our living room
no, really, I wouldn’t lie to you
an elephant, a real live elephant
us kids weren’t allowed to name it
we weren’t even allowed to mention it
although the room stank of poop
we held our noses against the stench
and pretended
that our mother was normal
just like Mrs. Baker or Mrs. Westfield
who packed lunches and drove their kids to school
who came to all the plays, all the games
who wore dresses and combed their hair
we pretended
that staying in bed all day was normal
that face down in a dinner plate was normal
that locking herself in the bathroom
and screaming obscenities was normal
then one day my older sister yelled
at my father who was buried
behind the Evening Bulletin
make her stop drinking!
the elephant disappeared
shuffling out the back door, her trunk swinging
her butt farting one last blast
and was never heard from again
The End

Almost
the drinking continued, bottles under beds
stuffed in boots, hidden behind cabinets, but
we no longer felt we were the crazy ones
The End

Musings At Eighty

            —We are not now that strength which in old days
            moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are.
Ulysses by Alfred Lord Tennyson
(Note: Ulysses is the Roman name for Odysseus)

Not exactly Kilimanjaro
cutting ice steps in epic chill
spikes of shiver in sleeping bags
but the gleam of glaciers
beaming blue at dawn!
now only in memory
my memory

Like Odysseus washed up on shore
it all looks flat and fallow
my husband with a fading mind
me with a fractious heart
jasmine tea with jelly toast at seven
grilled cheese and soup for supper
how dull it is to pause, to make an end

But grandchildren
charging through the halls, hiding, colliding
crying you cheated
begonias almost scratching the sky
blooming yellow for the first time
and the touch of a hand
your hand

I am a part of all that I have met
like Odysseus come full circle
is it too late to strive, to seek, to find
to visit the land of the Lotus Eaters,
the Sirens, Calypso and Circe
do we even want to?
or do we have enough right here
to nourish us, to see us through?

Skulking Around

     Skulking around     the perimeter of life     wearing a Mickey Mouse mask
and an oversized hoodie      which  I found in a dumpster outside Denny’s
     which doesn’t count as stealing     does it?

I was raised with religion     the eighth commandment    and fiery fingers
     pulling you down    which is why I sneak around     so I don’t draw the attention         
of the devil      on the label of Dave’s BBQ Sauce     holding a pitchfork
     all the better to thrust you    into the flames  

what of my tenth grade teacher      Mr. Hanson      of halitosis breath
     who caught me cheating  on the Algebra exam     why study
when Hannah is just one seat over    who seems to care about boats

     floating upstream/downstream     about x’s and y’s
the school expelled me    (ex+pellere to drive away)    my friends forgot me    
     I learned to love flying solo     on cocaine

then there’s my mother     Freud had lots to say
     about mothers      but my mother was not the one at fault     although
she did pray loudly most of the day      that I turn out better    
     that I clean the bathrooms     that I make her cucumber martinis

once I heard her call the police     to see if there is some spot    where
     you can sell a child     or simply drop him off      in front of
the firehouse    I hid in the hall closet     but she is not the one   
     who made me turn out      like this

what is this?      this streetwalking     sideswiping     jobless loser skulking     
     around the perimeter of life      sleeping on sidewalks   
with my stuffed dog, Spot.    pretending he is really real     wrapped in a worn blanket     
     but a blanket     is not a place     

I am looking for a place     where my name     remembers me    
     a place with a different color sky.

 

Claire Scott is an award winning poet who has received multiple Pushcart Prize nominations. Her work has appeared in the Atlanta Review, Bellevue Literary Review, New Ohio Review and Healing Muse among others. Claire is the author of Waiting to be Called and Until I Couldn’t.