This is not happening.

The sandwich half-made,

the milk half-poured,

the conversation half-heard,

truth half-told,

sky half-seen.

Dim light allows

a contracted mind

to believe:

This is not happening.

I am a careful cook

temporarily

feeding the children

on peanut butter sandwiches.

I am a good listener

but the inner chatter

is loud today.

I am a truthful woman,

kindly placating my husband.

I am a lover of nature,

when I have the time.

I am a considerate woman,

temporarily distracted.

A slender woman,

temporarily fat.

(I am hoping this poem

will end with satisfaction,

a nice round resolution

that makes it all better.)

I am a good-hearted woman,

temporarily angry.

A strong woman,

temporarily tired.

A loving woman,

temporarily alienated.

(If only I knew

the unwritten last line

then this poem

wouldn’t be happening.)

I am a sexy woman,

temporarily subdued.

A competent woman,

temporarily overwhelmed.

I have Hope for breakfast,

Denial for lunch,

Failure for dinner.

Resolution, I wanted.

As in “final,”

or as in “New Year’s?”

Imagine ending a poem:

“Tomorrow I’ll do better.”

We know the final resolution.

Will my dying words remain:

“This is not happening”?

From the Fall 1993 issue of Inquiring Mind (Vol. 10, No. 1)

Text © 1993 by Alia Johnson