ENOUGH IS ENOUGH

Lilith Thorn

I deleted

The texted pictures

Of my brother’s

First grandchild

Almost as quickly

As they arrived:

The induction,

The emergency surgery,

The recovery,

“The little warrior princess.”

I wrongly assumed

I would keep getting

More.

From The Places Between by Rory Stewart

Peace be with you.

I grew up hearing

Those words.

My parents didn’t actually

Believe them.

I try to teach them.

How are you?

I ask myself,

My children,

My students.

Is your soul healthy?

Or in modern parlance,

Are you practicing self care?

Are you well?

We are on a E

uropean school trip.

The students miss their moms.

“But there is freedom within.

There is freedom without.

Try to catch the damage

In a paper cup.”

Are you well?

Two of my daughters

Are with me,

Mad at me,

Exasperated.

Are you wealthy?

Have you bought enough souvenirs?

Ice cream? Coffee? Refrigerator magnets?

Men died on the beaches of Normandy

And we need t-shirts that accentuate

Our belly button piercings.

Are you fine?

I’m not, actually.

I’m still the age of my students,

My daughters, actually;

My mother is mad at me, always;

We’re poor and dysfunctional

And dead inside, always.

And everything I’ve ever done

Is in rebellion against that regularity.

Is your household flourishing?

It’s not, actually.

I need a little self care, always.

A moment alone

To appreciate all that I have

And all that is gone.

Long life to you.

A Bed, A Bread, A Book

I had a poem in my head

Before I went to bed and I

Was convinced I’d remember

It in the morning.

Spoiler alert:

I did not.

I woke up anxious, as always,

Had hot cocoa and buttered

Bread and went to bed

Again.

Hours later I walked

The mile to the coffee shop,

Listening to a podcast,

Ready to read Edwidge Danticat

For an hour before

The walk home

Again.

But We’re Alone was

Simply too real, too sad,

And I started texting a sad friend,

Instead. She’s on the other side

Of the political aisle.

She’s just as anxious.

The poem in her head

Before she went to bed

Has a totally different author,

And yet Danticat’s dying Haiti

Is heading for us both

And we’re sad for vastly

Different reasons.

We’re alone.

Again.

Even as refugees flee

And seek a bed, a bread, a book

Of their own.

Enough is Enough

I know the yoga will

Feel delicious, but

Right now the woman

In front of me is

Fast food: greasy,

Grumpy, all together too

Colorful, looking around

The room with an

“I’d like to speak to

The manager” manner.

I already got backlash

At home this moring:

“Free yoga? At the park district?

And anybody can go?”

My flow is broken.

I’m not yogi enough,

Capitalist enough,

Taxed enough,

Relaxed enough,

Lulu Lemon enough-

This prickly pear,

This poor man’s banana.

Breathe.

I am enough, pitya.

I have enough, persimmon.

I do enough. Permission.

Maria Fischer is currently reading an ESL version of Barack Obama’s biography for her adult English language learners. With her high school students, she is taking arms against a sea of AI and opposing end it (?). She also has a beautiful bulldog named Schwanhilde that won’t allow anyone to pet her head, but only her behind.