cafe mama

finding magic every day

on my fourth visit from child protective services . a poem . february 17 . 2012

report these hands

I open my door as she struggles with the gate,
fixed, badly, by my sister-in-law's boyfriend,
who also hates when the boys wrestle & play rough. 'It scares me,'
he says. It stopped scaring me long ago
when I saw the joy in their eyes, heard the heart,
the collaboration. Their fighting is magic:
with rules of physics and metrics that are
beyond me.

She talks, says who she is, as she walks down the walk.
I cannot hear a word; the traffic going by outside
drowns out her name and her badge. She gets closer. I hear,
"CPS," and she wants to come in.
trips over old newspapers and lands in the doorway
gets up.

She is coming about him.
Monroe, limit-unsettler, fast-mover,
always running up against something
because his body moves faster than his zoomy bright brain.

Or really: about me. Whether I can
him from
his brother and the negative energy that spills out of him
sometimes. Like the other day. Monday.
When two women were
me by starting the process of assessing Monroe's capacity
to sit still
in kindergarten.

I see the irony, right away,
how they were helping me and judging me,
how I did not grab the negative energy,
hold it with all my might in the kitchen,
while the two women sat on my messy living room couch
because there were two women sitting on my messy living room couch.

I thought they'd disapprove of my methods.
Damned both ways.

No I am not capable of handling this.
I want to see what you would have done.
I want to mandatory-report you,
doing the same things wrong that I did,
a different way.


you have none. I know this because
you were only here to give me some.
And all you did was report me.

read my previous post . my art beats for you . february 13 . 2012