When the House Tilts

Posted bygenienakanoPosted inpoemsTags:, , , ,

A Freeverse Poem

I married four times—

not counting the two men

I lived with like

commercial breaks between divorces.

Am I ashamed?

Well,

it’s not something I’d put on my résumé—

poet, dancer, runaway bride…

but hey,

I survived,

and this last one

is thirty-six years strong.

But when things go crooked,

when the house tilts,

when emotion floods the hallway,

my six-year-old self

packs her bags.

I say the words:

I’m leaving.

I want a divorce.

I’m out of here.

I run away like a child

in a woman’s body

with two hip replacements

and a stenotic spine,

still believing escape

is the only way she knows.

Once I ran so hard

I broke my whole damn foot—

three metatarsals,

clean through.

I crawled up the stairs,

breathing like an orgasm,

except there was no pleasure in it,

and called Hideki—and he rushed home

because that man

loves me,

even when I’m ridiculous.

How could I forget that?

Three months ago

I did it again.

Same story,

new reason—

something about Mary,

jealousy,

an open wound

still afraid of losing

what it loves.

And here I am,

seventy-seven and a half,

thinking:

next time I run away

I’ll be in a wheelchair,

rolling down the driveway,

thinking I’m free.

Why do I do this—

abandon before I’m abandoned?

It’s the math of childhood:

Mom disappears into a hospital at three.

Dad vanishes into a sanitarium at six.

Two years later—

separation, then divorce.

My heart learns subtraction

before it learns love.

Still, in the darkest rooms

there’s a flicker—

old stories rising,

old wounds humming,

a child holding her shoes,

ready to run.My identity

has danced every color:

White, Black, Puerto Rican.

Lovers spun me across continents

without leaving L.A.

One stole everything I owned.

One was a womanizer.

One I put through college.

I drifted between cultures,

thinking maybe somewhere else

I would finally belong.

And now—Hideki.

Sansei, like me.

Eighty-five next month,

his memory slipping.

We fight like teenagers,

love like elders—

slow, stubborn, rooted.

Sometimes I’m cruel.

Sometimes I forget

his stroke carved holes

in the sentences he tries to finish.

Sometimes I take that personally,

as if forgetting a sentence

means forgetting me.

Sometimes I ache

for a sharper mind

instead of the gentle, loyal heart

I already have.

And shame

sits beside me

like a cold cup of tea.

How can I be so cruel?But then—

late afternoon—

the sky turns pink,

then lavender,

then blue disappears,

and I remember:

Love is a practice—

a returning,

a staying.

I want to stay home.

I want to love this man.

I want to stop running from ghosts

that are no longer chasing me.

A new year is coming.

A new dawn.

A new way.

Maybe this time

I’ll keep my suitcase in the closet.

Maybe this time

I’ll let the child in me rest.

Maybe this next time.

Published by genienakano

I love writing--It's my joy, my therapy--my confession. I'm a performer, dancer, yoga and meditation instructor, write a poetry column for Rafu Shimpo. Growth and love of life is a key to my happiness.

11 thoughts on “When the House Tilts”

  1. Dear Cheryl, Gosh. Glad to hear you are alive. Quintuple heart and 2 angioplasties!! I feel honored you took the time to write me back. I am writing but not posting very much. I joined a zoom and the leader is very kind and supportive. We have become good friends. Zoom during covid opened the world for me. If you are interested her name is Linda Singer and we meet twice aweek. The zoom is Poetryapocalypse. Anyway, I just wanted to respond to your comments and I hope you both are recovering. I’m 78 and hubby is 85. We hope to have many more years to enjoy life. And I wish the same for you. Love and Peace. Yes, Peace, Peace World Peace.

    Like

  2. Sorry to hear it’s been rough years for you. Us too! I had a quintuple heart bypass followed by 2 angioplasties to stent grafts in my heart. I am also having vision issues that interfere with my computer time.

    Robert had an aortic disection, which is usually fatal, but thankfully, he survived and is doing fairly well. He also had to have surgery to repair his pacemaker.

    The violence, war, and nasty politics is very distressing for both of us, though California has had more than it’s share of that up close and personal!

    We do the best we can, and hope for better days. I wish you all the best , Genie!

    ❤️🦋🌻🦋❤️

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  4. Thank you all. Tim see ya in class, Michael I’m writing long pieces now, just wrote another,

    Cheryl thanks for commenting. I will revisit you site. I haven’t been posting for yearss I’ve been writing but hidden.

    Like

  6. Thanks, Genie! Very nice! Didn’t you mention once that you grew up in East Los, went to Roosevelt HS (where I taught), and I don’t remember what else. Take care,Charles Harmon

    CRUSIN’ LOW AND SLOW INEAST LOS

     

    Growing up in 50s and 60s SoCal I heard alot of great music

    on the shortwave radio I built from aRadio Shack kit, tubes

    glowing in the darkness of my room ‘roundmidnight, scent of

    jasmine wafting through open windows thosehot summer nights.

     

    I heard a song called “Whittier Boulevard,”which I assumed was

    about the stretch of it that passedthrough my hometown, but I soon

              learned it went all the way west through PicoRivera and Montebello

              into East Los Angeles and downtownwhere it became 6th Street.

    Dad taught English and coached football,basketball, and baseball at Montebello High, so he usually took Whittier orBeverly to work.

    But it was over in East Los that cruisingdeveloped into an art form.

    I had no idea until I got out of gradschool and started teaching in LAUSD.

    I usually tried to get home before dark,but I taught sciences and did a lot of labs and demos and often worked latesetting up experiments. When I left that late after sunset I avoided thefreeway because it was a mess.

     

    Whittier Boulevard after dark was ablazewith the lights of taco trucks

    and hundreds of lowriders, classicAmerican cars lovingly restored

    and beautiful reminders of a time when theUSA made the best cars in the universe. Detroit steel and the Big Three attheir best! Many were lowered

    and equipped with hydraulics so they couldbe made to “dance” and even

    jump like giant wild animals. I recalledthe song, “Lowrider,” and how

    it encouraged drivers and passengers to“go a little slower.” That’s what

    it was all about, to see and be seen.Along with all the break dancers with

    their fancy dance steps and Manny elPachuco (“Pachuco Manny”) and all the Pachucos in their Zoot Suits and thestreet vendors and all the kids dancing in the streets and bikers on Harleys andstreet musicians with guitars and bongos and the Mariachi bands. Better notmention all the gang bangers and junkies and drug dealers and hookers andaddicts and pimps and just plain crazies.

     

    I was reminded of a song, “La Bamba,” thatRichie Valens turned into a hit

    after he heard it in Tijuana. Years later afterhe had died in an airplane crash

    “Los Lobos,” an East LA band, performed itfor a biopic about Valens’ life,

    “La Bamba.” Three of the guys in the bandwere students of my music

    teacher friend, Mr. Garcia. Anotherconnection is that I bought a Guild Starfire electric guitar that had belongedto David Hidalgo, lead guitarist

    and singer-songwriter for Los Lobos. Iplayed rhythm on it with the music

    teachers’ band, “The Over the Hill Gang,”and I was the only non-music teacher, as I taught physics and chemistry (nerdalert). But they said I could sing, so that was my job. Other songs that cometo mind about SoCal are “LA Woman” by the Doors, “California Dreaming” by the Mamasand the Papas, “Good Vibrations,” “I Love LA,” “Ventura Highway,” “HotelCalifornia,” and so many others. A million others.

     

    Over the years I taught sciences at BelvedereMiddle School, summer

    School at Wilson High, ESL in night schoolat Garfield, and sciences

    at Roosevelt. One of the highlights eachyear was the East LA Classic

    football game between Roosevelt and Garfieldfor homecoming. The

    beautiful queen and princesses and theirbeaus would be driven slowly

    around the track before being crowned athalftime. Garfield tended to field better teams and win more games, but thecompetition between the drum

    majors seemed to count for just as much aswinning the football game.  

     

    The homecoming court would be drivenslowly around the track in beautiful old classic cars of ancient vintage madeof Detroit American steel from

    the 30s, 40s, and 50s. Finally theirchauffeurs would pull over and the court

    would emerge in their regalia crowned andcelebrated with great acclaim.

     

    Don’t know how they smuggled it throughsecurity, but there was massive

    consumption of alcoholic beverages—mostlybeer and wine and tequila—

    and a constant smell of skunk in the air.I usually tried to slip out early unless it was a cliffhanger so I could avoidthe crowds and the traffic. But I’ll never forget cruisin’ low and slow in EastLos—even when I can take the freeway.

     

     

    ~Charles Harmon

    February 28, 2025

    four feathers press, March 22, 2025

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  8. Genie, an eloquent and forthright poem! I admire how you have dealt with so many adverse events in your life and how, in spite of the adversities you faced, you have found fulfillment and accomplished so much in your life. Kudos!

    I tell you there is no need for shame, but then, I think you already know that. I think we all would do a few things differently if we could relive the past. Every experience, both joyful and painful, brings insight and has value. But I am sure you already knew that too. Take care! ❤️

    Like

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