Martha - Caring

(sister of Mary and Lazarus)

There is a certain art to caring:
breathing in and out
at a regular pace,
recognizing this perfection
even as you execute it.
You start things in perfection
but never finish them.
You throw them in the trash
or down the garbage disposal;
the ragged metal claws
eradicate
a misplaced stitch,
a misplaced comma,
a misplaced interest
in something more than friendship.
You think
all the time
about the way you look,
the way people look at you,
the fact that this poem
doesn’t rhyme,
isn’t metered,
is flawed.

There is a certain art to caring
and sometimes you get it right:
when an important guest
arrives
and the table
is set, the napkins
are folded, and everything,
everything has been vacuumed
twice over. The rain that was forecast
hasn’t fallen. Your cheese soufflé
hasn’t fallen. The ridges
on the crust of the pie
are so immaculate
they are
inconsequential.
The world is a just and ordered place.

But then your guest tells you to come.
To sit.
Tells you come, why don’t you care?
Why don’t you care,
why don’t you care.
Why don’t you care, guest?
I thought you knew all about me,
all about pie crusts and the art
of creation,
your fingerprints
on my face;
all about
sacrifices
that need to be
made. All about caring.
Don’t fucking tell me I don’t care.
In this
Fuck fuck fucked up
world I care a good deal,
a great deal too much.

I hate
hate it.
Hating myself.
I don’t want a God
who made me this way
I just need to care
less.