Lines That Wouldn’t Let Me Sleep

You remember when you were young

And you held the night in the palms of your hands

In the lines on the insides of your fingers

And in the creases of your elbows

Sometimes you can still sense little bits of it, there,

Hanging,

Threads of starlight and midnight city air stuck

Under your nails and behind your ears

But when you look in the mirror

It’s a grown-up who looks back,

Haggard, adult,

A woman whose circles under her eyes tell more

Than her cracked lips ever could.

By Betsy Jacobson, 6.2.2011

In Which I Miss Her Already.

She wasn't my grandmother.
In the end, you know,
she wasn't anyone I knew.
Really, she wasn't anyone at all.
She was grey and bones,
and skin,
and tubes and blankets and coughs,
like some sci-fi alien monster
out to destroy or rule the world,
or both.
But three weeks ago, and four, and five,
and all that time before,
she was Pepsi first thing in the morning
and she was Midwestern beer at midnight.
She was TMZ and 12:30 p.m. and Judge Judy at 3 p.m.
and history books at 7.
She was pixie cuts and CoverGirl and she was,
"This is much too big for me, do you think
it might fit you?"
She was fudge and glass candy at Christmas,
she was ham on Easter,
she was the best Thanksgiving stuffing anyone
could ever make.
She was crazy earrings and too-big dentures and
she was every sale at Kohl's and Wal-Mart and Big Lots.
She was Fox 10 News, Sherriff Joe's biggest fan and
Obama's biggest critic, and
God help you if you had a visible tattoo,
or worse, a piercing.
And she was there,
always cheering,
always loving,
always willing to lend a hand or
a shoulder or
a book or
just a word.
She was my grandmother.
She was my Gramma.
And now she isn't.

RIP Barbara Janet Jacobson
Feb. 11 1938- Dec. 14 2010

Someone posted this today.
Someone posted this today
in a community about, of all things,
inspiration.
Someone posted this today
in a place where I and others look
for beauty
for peace
for distraction
for hope.
Someone posted this today
and it made me
angry and nauseous
made my stomach roil like a sea storm.
That's how my grandma's legs look. That's how
thin
how straight
how angled her limbs fall
against the recliner or couch
or bed
or wheelchair.
True, her skin hangs looser,
and she can't stand at all, let alone
walk pouting down a runway.
But those legs could be her legs,
and neither I nor my tumbling stomach
can see
how that is in the least
inspiring.

this bird is god, he said
and closed the cage.

wish you could see you
real you
three-dimensional imperfect
lovely you
all pride-inspiring and rosy cheeks
all sleepy smiles and literalness
wish i could mirror you
real you.

In Which I've Lit a Candle And Am Now Listening to Amanda Palmer.

she's the one who can't lie worth a damn,
and that's really what matters here,
so forgetting never lasts long enough for her

she's the kind of girl who needs to feel
to talk it through and write it down and let it out
clear the air or smoke it up

but she isn't the one who slams percussive screams
to the other kindly ones and
she's not the one who lives in the walls
and eats them from the inside out and
she's tried and couldn't use it in her art

but she's really very good at feeling
and no one can talk quite as much as her.

In Which I Am Overwhelmed, and Also There Are Probably Mice Nesting In My Mattress.

Something is gnawing

and I don't mean in some intangible
cry-it-out feelings kind of way

I mean, really, gnawing
chewing at my bed frame or my wall
and I can't see what it is

but I think it's probably mice

but since I did bring them up
let's talk about feelings
and how much they are like mice

how they nest
how they scrittle around, hidden
how they run out at unexpected or inopportune moments
how they breed so quickly
and how cats can sometimes chase them away and

how it would be so much easier to sleep

without this incessant
gnawing.