Because it’s the best I can doNot to be less than thisWhen all the goodness That the universe has to offerIs right here, in receptionAnd I am full of gratitudeand worry, overwhelm and self-loathing There are ways to be more, I thinkI have engaged in all of themI have achieved such normalcyThat I hardly recognized myself And then bound so far beyond itThat I got dual sessions Free of charge, new prescriptions I would never fill Because you see what you need to see in meAnd I oblige, alwaysWith quiet…read more
The sun rises and the cat whines outside
I know his routine, but I choose to write.
There is a very long list of to-dos:
empty accounts, unpaid bills,
the responsibilities of parenthood
looming in soft little breaths
all around me.
Our home creaks for attention,
the subtle jingle of a ceiling fan
I need to fix,
pictures to hang,
that broken drawer…
most the food in boxes because I have yet
to line the cabinets,
sew bench cushions,
polish the floors.
And I know that he wants me,
The one slumbering
in the quiet of our room,
before blood flows like a barrier between us
And his desires are stalemated,
But I decide to settle down to write.
Nothing of matter
Nothing of great consequence,
But the practice I will need to make it
The daily watering and reminder:
In your heart,
in your hands
is the seed of a writer,
(dishes, laundry, dinner, sex,
carpets, curtains, wall hooks,
plants, orders to fulfill, interest
to avoid, angry emails, lists, lists)
help it grow.
The lemon-white of the sun glides up over the tree line flashes of burning white through the leaves Things begin to glow: plots of dying grass buttercream siding dusty gray window screens The breeze brings a noisy chorus crackling brown leaves grayish old branches creaking pebbles carried along the concrete But above us the clouds move in silence drifting through the blue coming and going And tiny seed pods fall from the sky flittering their delicate wings Birds squawk cicadas chirp and I sit Autumn sings and I am listening….read more
I’m hurting and Im low, so I type, erase, type, erase. Sometimes a status is an outlet, sometimes your undoing. Sometimes there’s no one else to hear you, no one really listening, so you shout it from the rooftops so that you don’t have to jump. Today, I thought of cutters. People who have to slip a blade across their flesh for relief. The way they must feel the pain rising up out of their bodies like a noxious gas, the sigh of release. And this is an age of…read more