Gregarious Expressions

*This post includes two concluding stanzas that were cut from the printed card due to lack of space.

Didn’t like the cold so much when I was younger,
blamed the biting air for skipping classes.
But I didn’t know about wool then
(not the cozy kind that doesn’t itch)
and it was colder in the ‘90s.

Now, suffering hot flashes most days,
the chill is welcome.
There’s a luxury to dressing in layers;
topping off coats with concealing cloches.
Glad for the excuse to cover my aging body.

Like wrapping paper,
women over a certain age
have been too hastily discarded,
tossed crumpled into the corner.
Obsolete as a Twilight Zone librarian.

My sister loves the tubes at Christmastime,
the color play of so many designs.
Nothing, she reminds me, is more satisfying
than a full-roll, clean swipe of the scissors.
Stacy used to stay up all night wrapping presents
but gift bags are too easy.

Our grandmas who grew up in the Depression
taught us to save every scrap.
Slice along the Scotch tape,
salvage what you can,
try not to rip the paper.
Recycle that sheet.

A student writes,
“wrapping paper is terrible for the environment.” *
Oh, shit. That, too?
Coated and covered with glitter, foil, tape, and bows,
it’s hardly recyclable.
But couldn’t we all use a little mystery and suspense?
The pleasure of anticipation?
The magic of the reveal?

Can I look the other way on this?
Imagine four months of winter-bare branches
without snow, now and then, to cushion the view.

I spent a lot of time thinking about masks this year.
Not the flimsy paper things we hoped
would slow the virus
But the subservient facade they call normal,
the polite smile that excuses exploitation,
doesn’t complain,
helps the insecure feel superior
and the abusive absolved.

Mine keeps slipping. Oops, sorry, not sorry.
Just trying to be me!
But they don’t like what they see.
And now I don’t even know who to text anymore.

We’re judged by our exteriors
while we insist it’s what’s inside that counts.
Truth is:
nothing inside that package will fill the void inside of you.
The ghosts will be hungry
until you stop wanting.

We prefer potential to reality,
just wanting to feel seen.
Maybe this time?

Your gifts are not a test:
we’re only counting thoughts.
Still, people give envelopes of cash
or can’t miss gift cards
because they know an ill-chosen gift
will give them away.
The poshest packaging in the world
won’t cover their failure to care.
Because they haven’t been paying attention.
They don’t remember what you’ve said.
They don’t really know you at all.
And who has the time to shop?
“Things” aren’t what life’s about.

Is this how people decide we collect things –
like owls or elephants?
Like a nickname, you don’t get to choose.

It’s all got me thinking about intimacy
(as I struggle to write romance)
and how we fall in love as we reveal
what’s inside to one another,
whisper secrets never before shared,
confess high hopes and silly dreams.

This poem has come a long way.
I don’t know if it’s done
but it’s time to wrap it up now.
Pun intended.

*Furoshiki cloths are fine. Use newspaper roses or natural springs of pine and cones
instead of shiny synthetics.

– alicia grega, Nov.-Dec. 2023