Fringe Magazine - Issue 9 Archive

Longer Poetry.
Home > Issue 9: April 2007 > Longer Poetry

Transition Time
by J. Ladin

All text taken from The Women’s Times, July and October 2005, Northampton, MA

A catalyst, a guru, a fearless
14-year-old in her first strapless dress,
you go unrecognized,

tight in the bud, more painful than the bloom
whose summertime lures us
with one common goal: to not be rolled over

by the weight of life. Fragile and delicate
as dough, your prospects stall you with excuses.
After training for years

to be buried in sand, packed in sawdust,
left in the ground
under a heavy layer of mulch,

you’ve learned to watch the pain
munching on your gender since childhood, harvesting
the meatier sections, legs and hips and knees,

while you retreat, just out of reach,
a balance not allowed to be,
a discreet oxygen tank maintained

for the benefit of other people.
Ready to leave that pose?
A large door

opens in one wall, a footbridge connecting
to a house with snow in the center,
a historically accurate reproduction

of your attempts to make male and female nourish
homes and normal-looking places.
So much is growing there: clematis

of varying shapes and sizes, bread and salad
and the fragility of others—
an excessively bountiful crop—

bittersweet, upside-down genders
striking bargains, cutting gardens,
appearing to level the world.

This is a part-time position. A difficult pregnancy.
Go in and chop down
who you meant to be, clearing land

for beautiful, invasive plants
that will change the ecological balance,
honoring the soul

and her need to be embodied
after 20 years of contraception
as a new wife

who suffers none of your inhibitions.
There’ll be no turning back. A hurricane is coming,
equal parts God and female,

shaking in celebration
behind rolling hills, winding rivers,
day-to-day existence, looking for a home

in the middle of your life. Remove your roadblocks
any time, day or night.
Chop and measure and stir yourself

into a delicious middle-aged body.
Woman—in terms of essence
reclaiming the world.

Can this woman rebuild a world
from the ruins of internal landscapes?
She thinks so, dear reader.

Alarming and bizarre as the birth sounds,
the old life ends on the heels of awe.
The heart attack always telling us stories

of divorce and departure
is the first course in a meal that ends
with a sense of having reaped

a new person
fusing all directions: a parent
who finds it hard to let go; a little girl

giving birth to a tiger;
God’s presence, a confirmed wall-flower,
let loose with a reckless swing.