how does the saying go?

my older sister once quoted... "adulthood is merely recovery from your childhood." (?) or something like that. that’s true in the best case scenarios. worst case... we never recover. so then what? not to mention the dilemmas of adulthood that promise to keep you at insanity’s edge. the undelivered promises of loving relationships. raising God-loving children in cruel crux of capitalism. does anyone know of a 21-day, outpatient recovery program for divorce? (if so, can you send me the hotline number?) it seems my life has, in recent times, been a journey riddled in my own recovery or being actively engaged in someone else’s, which feels no less consuming. i am trying not to become exhausted by the ever-changing direction of wind but even the most finely finished flags fray at the edges. i am steadfast in prayer that the people i love will continue to buy me beef bacon and wish me beautiful mornings. i am counting the seconds, minutes, hours… until my heart finds solace in the mere act of beating… until my lungs fill with enough air for a long-overdue exhale... until i can recover the self (or create a self, considering she probably never really existed) who can wholly and unconditionally give and receive love. man, i am really trying not to go into a soliloquy about what is or is not possible based on what experiences we have, what we’ve been exposed to, who our examples are, etc.; or about having as much mercy and compassion for ourselves as we might find for other people as we experience our own healing and growth but that soapbox of rhetoric starts to sound like charlie brown’s teacher after a while. (wha-waaa-whaaa-wa-wa-wa…) i thank Allah (in the beautiful melancholy that is moments like these) that i am a writer. otherwise it would eat away at every fiber of slightly bloated body, and where would be the example of living in that? so here’s to recovery and more recovery and still more recovery.

ok, so one piece of my own healing is happening in my submission process. i actually got another submission off this last week (woooohoooo!). so i am one anticipated rejection closer to greatness. (and rejection recovery!)

finally, for those of you wonderful eough and supportive enough and with time enough on your hands to have offered your critiques and suggestions for the last poem posted, i offer the final version of the poem below. i re-titled it (more fittingly, i think) and took many of you up on your suggestions. it’s funny, as i started incorporating your comments and advice, the story became something other than what i intended. anyway, i think this version keeps the feeling of what i wanted from the initial poem. i hope you like it. (if you don’t, well… write your own poem. I’M KIDDING! i love y’all.)

on toward recovery…
for-evah, for always, for love…
shia


Progeny

when she asks again
how i can tell for sure
he is her dad

when she argues
she was conceived
in my body
not his

she grew
in my belly
not his

she fed
on my breast
not his

she called first
my name
not his

i will tell her
my spine tingled
the exact moment
he gave her
the slant of her eyes
the lankiness of her legs
the fresco of her skin
the slope of her nose
the pout of her lips and
the wit that inspires
her incessant
why

©2006 by Shia Shabazz