Thanksgiving

A storm glides in from the Pacific,
a reminder of power and pressure.
Another storm battles the Atlantic,
our mid-Chesapeake home district.
Determined dissonance overwhelms us  
here in Louisiana. We spend the day 
in a forced calm to this half-quiet holiday.
The sun is somber, warm,
and I don’t know why we’re eating inside.

We do everything to avoid politics –
Trump elected over Hillary
and the three of them, voted for him
despite Mother’s misgivings, or because of them.
We do everything to avoid talking about her mortality,
but we know this is likely her last Birthday.
No one brought her favorite cake.
They did last year, even though the baker didn’t manage it right.

The conversation melts into too many words
about ski vacations twenty years before.
Glasses empty and bottles of chardonnay disappear.
I am not interested, not included, 
poke at the passable stuffing that isn’t my mother’s.

To the north, at the Standing Rock Reservation,
thousands protest in this double storm front.
Slashed down by Federals with rubber bullets
and fire hoses, the water freezing on contact.

These law men are local, skipped reading civility brochures.
North Dakota law knows Obama is an environmentalist.
Knows this is tribal land. Knows that pipelines break.
It doesn’t care, because for a little while, it would mean jobs.

A friend of mine, a songwriter, is there.
She went, telling her young children that sometimes,
going to the danger is crucial. Even if you’re going to get hurt.
She tells them it is okay to be afraid for her.

She calls me, as the protesters set a car on fire
and I laugh and love this modern war whoop against oil.
I should be there instead.
Fight in frozen clothing, stand against the pipeline.

It is the full news, fully ignored in Baton Rouge.
My leaving, would be frowned upon.
Not understood as more significant
than these sad niceties.
Here, I am not seen as Indian.
Here, I am a woman who cleans up the mess
of their lame words.
The uncles leave without even taking their plates to the sink.

But their words leech, like spilled oil
into their mothers lungs and she sighs.
She is too tired to fix them.
Only so much ground can recover, before it reaches water, 
grows and splits into illness without cures.

At Standing Rock, protesters hope to prevent disaster.
The No Shit, this will break wide open,
as pipelines have always broken.
If there is no way to clean up the mess,
don’t make one.

My Mother’s Dating Profile

My Mother sent me an e-mail
asking me to edit her new dating profile.
It is 6:25 am,
I am making smoothies and push pulse.

Hon, you won't believe this.
My girlfriend of four years is getting dressed,
I wrap an arm around her waist
and read what I'm to edit.

I'm into equality for women, 
but I want a man to be a man.
What am I supposed to do with that?

Accept it. It is her generation. 
You're a 34 year old lesbian.
Your mother is straight, and in her late 60's.
Doesn't she have a boyfriend, that Lemoncello-making guy?

She does. They aren't together but aren't broken up. 
They hook up once in a while for a date weekend
but she doesn't like his show-off treatment of $500 cognac snifters.
She doesn't want to move in with him.

I have seen, known, my Mother's “men who are men.”
The ones who, ultimately, hit her. Cheated on her.
Spent her savings. Ruined her chance at politics. 
Stole her son. Given her no choice but to abort twins.

I leave alone the line that bothers me.
I'm 2,600 miles away, living with my lover.
I clean up the rest, make it flow and reveal 
how much she loves a giant popcorn with her movies.

Elizabeth Ashe is a sculptor and poet, who earned her MFA from the Mount Royal School of Art at the Maryland Institute College of Art, and an MFA in creative writing from Chatham University. Her public art projects have recently been on view at the Bemidji Sculpture Walk, Sukkahwood Festival, and Art All Night DC. Ashe's poetry has appeared in Bourgeon, Yellow Medicine Review, the Lavender Review, Vagabondage, and Badlands Literary Journal, among many others. Her work is included in Studio Visit Magazine, issue 46. She was lead curator for “Not So Concrete,” an exhibition on the role or architecture in our lives, funded by the DC Commission on the Arts and Humanities. Due to COVID, the exhibit went online. She was just awarded a grant from the same organization, to support her art practice for the next year. Ashe lives with her girlfriend in Washington, D.C., where she has an active studio practice. Ashe currently has a studio residency at Portico Gallery and Studios in Brentwood, MD. She works as the Exhibits and Event Technician for the Katzen Center at American University.