Rewilding
I swipe right
with the courage of a woman
who hasn’t been touched in seven years
a Biblical cycle
an astrological phenomenon
an hour later
I peel off my sweat-stained sackcloth
agonize about what to wear
for this strange rendezvous
my first date in 25 years
I meet D. at the park
he is just like his pictures
and I am
like nothing I ever expected
lit up with this galaxy of longing
quickly I text my sister
I think this is going to be okay
she writes back
enjoy your Italian stallion
we sit on his blanket
as dusk falls
and fireworks fling themselves
at the night sky
slowly I slide my hand
electric
down his thigh
while he watches me
his finger traces the outline
of my parched lips
slips under my waistband
my skin ripples
he pulls me up
leads me to the dark
pushes me up against a tree
hot breath on my neck
arms around me like darkness
arms around rough bark
I lean back
my head arcs
and I see stars
bright through branches
full and lush
leaves trembling
like me
jagged
with shards
of moonlight
The Road
this winding road
weaves its way through decades
this tunnel of green
so dense you can’t see the sky
even in winter
each curve unfurls a memory
me in my red plaid coat
giggling in the backseat with my brother
my mother’s arm reaching back
as we dodge her pincers
these trees are a thousand years old
but here I am, a teenager,
speeding around dawn’s tight corner
spilling with drug addled laughter
thinking I am getting away with something
thinking I am free
not looking up
not even noticing
the sprinkling of stardust
falling through the cedar boughs
as a mother I slow down
show my taciturn teenagers
the awe this road deserves
their eyes roll like stones in the creek
repeating history
now I drive this road alone
windows down no matter the season
alert to the dripping ancients
their emerald coats, their whispering leaves
at last I am listening
Home
in my dreams
I inhabit houses that don’t exist
discover new rooms
buy, sell, move, regret
always I wake
distraught
stay, the walls whisper
don’t leave
in my waking hours
I fight for my tiny house
accept the creaking floorboards
the single bathroom
I trust the dreams
but interpret too literally
I keep the house
lose the husband
again the walls whisper
stay, dream, here
the first thing I reclaim is the closet
the bedroom still shared with children
who crawl under the covers
with their questions and demands
when my son moves out
I reclaim the living room
with candles
plants and books
when my daughter moves out
I will take her sunlit room
for a proper office
let the rays baptize me
one by one, my family is leaving
soon I will have the whole house to myself
and all the space I dreamt about
but none of the busy messy love
still these walls will hold me
as strong as any lover
sit down, they will whisper
rest, dream again
*
Cori Howard is a writer and poet living on the traditional unceded territory of the Coast Salish peoples in British Columbia. Her poetry has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Cordella Magazine, Fieldstone Review, Musing Publications, Quail Bell Magazine, Yellow Arrow Journal, Discretionary Love, Sustenance and The Sound. An award-winning journalist of 30 years, her work has appeared in The New York Times, Washington Post, Real Simple Magazine, and The Independent, among others. Cori is also the editor of the best-selling anthology, Between Interruptions: Thirty Women Tell the Truth about Motherhood.
New Critique 