‘And Also With You’, ‘I'm Not Well’, ‘Perimenopause?’’, ‘Some Things are About the Kids’ & ‘It's Not Jack's Fault’
David Summerfield’s photo art has appeared in numerous literary magazines/journals/and reviews. He’s also been editor, columnist, and contributor to various publications within his home state of West Virginia. He is a graduate of Frostburg State University, Maryland, and a veteran of the Iraq war. View his work at davidsummerfieldcreates.com
And Also With You
I want to be devout
To a religion. Any religion.
I want to say,
“Praise God!” when someone
Asks me how I’m doing. I want
To want to fall to my knees and pray
Every day and go to church
Or temple or synagogue
Once each week. I don’t
Want to worry about
The clogged toilet, my mom’s
Lewy body dementia, my nearly
Homeless brother, my night
Sweats, what I look like
In a bathing suit, wildres, or
Spending too much on sushi, and I want to release My guilt to God. I want to plaster
A smile on my face like all the other
Religious fools. That’s God, right?
I raise my hands
Toward the heavens and see
A cloud rise from my head,
A mile long, never to return.
I believe, I believe, I believe.
Fuck everything.
Send Prozac, please.
Peace be with you.
I’m Not Well
I’m not well
I write from my bed after tucking
Fresh, white sheets on the mattress
Stained with yellow sweat blobs.
I say I’m not well
Out loud to my husband,
And he doesn’t know what that means.
How do I clarify? How do I testify?
How do I put it in poetic terms?
My sun is refusing to shine?
The wind won’t sway my branches?
The color has faded from my ag
Or maybe my eyes, and the alphabet
Is fuzzy?
I can’t, I just can’t
Try those new dresses on. Why
Did I choose oral patterns?
I feel stupid and
Contagious. Maybe I listen
To too many 90s grunge songs.
Is that my problem, or is it
Depression or menopause or a brain tumor Or age?
I can’t, I just can’t
Explain it, and I can’t
Fix it with a wrench
Or a screwdriver or a hammer. I’m going to pop A Claritin so at least
My skin will stop itching.
That’s all I can do for now.
Perimenopause
I remember my driver’s ed teacher–
Coach Steadman, because of course,
He was our football coach, too.
He spoke with a slow, Southern drawl and
Often wore striped shirts tucked
Into his pants, emphasizing his paunchy belly That was weirdly oblong-shaped.
His hair was white-blond and thin,
In contrast to the rest of him.
I remember he favored the boys and the way
He made us all go to the high school parking lot So we could hear the bass thrumming from
A classmate’s car, presented as part of the
Car systems project. I hand-drew a poster about car steering. The only other thing I remember from that class Is that he told us if we drove 80 miles per hour And wrecked, we would die. So, for my
Peace of mind and a little extra insurance,
I drove 84.
Some Things are About the Kids
You asked for the wine fridge but not for the framed photos of the four boys as babies. You took the picture of Williams-Bryce Stadium but not the macaroni necklaces or nger paintings of rainbows and owers. I sorted the crafted Christmas ornaments for you, but I should’ve kept them all for myself. You loaded the expensive marble table in the back of the U-Haul, but you left behind the handprints in shadowboxes. You moved to a new life with a new wife who was your roommate’s old girlfriend. You bought your sons phones, but don’t even call on a weekly basis. When they visit, you don’t ask them about tennis or the books they are reading, but they tag along with you to the places you want to go, listening to Taylor Swift and country instead of their song list.
Please tell me, how do you live with yourself, how do you live without regret?
It’s Not Jack’s Fault
It’s not Jack’s fault that he reminds me Of the twenty-something-year old Southern frat boy that I hid away until I saw Christine Blasey-Ford testify against Brett Kavanaugh. Brown hair,
Just a bit wavy, about two weeks
Past needing a hair cut. I don’t remember His eyes as much since it was dark on The re escape balcony, but I imagine They were brown like Jack’s. His skin Was pale, and his breath smelled like Vomit and beer, soft belly, loud mouth.
It’s not Jack’s fault, but I don’t like To see him on the dance oor every Tuesday, Leading his girlfriend around the oor, One, two, three, four, making
Her twirl at his whim. It’s not
Jack’s fault, but I
Don’t want to tango anymore.
Betsy Robertson was a finalist for the Rash Award in Poetry. She is a lecturer at San Diego State University and the mom of five children. Her focus is on women's health and menopause.
