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Posts Tagged » poetry

You awake. You, awake.


Feb 12, 2013 poetry , , , 0 Comments

Sometimes you wake up and all is perfectly clear. Your thoughts your plans your item by item day is visceral in your hands, you are here and the day is here and your thoughts are tidy as library rows, only instead of novels and history they are brief works of daytime prose and narrative illustration.

Sometimes you wake up and instead of feeling the cat who was slept on your legs and your chest for almost 18 years you feel only a lack of weight, except in your heart which is still heavy, heavy, heavy with her loss. Which is, incidentally, where she sleeps now.

Sometimes you wake up and wonder how you got so blonde and what, subsequently, should be done about your eyebrows now that you look like someone else.

Sometimes you wake up and when you breathe you realize that you are still breathing, and what a gift that is, and without having to think too far you realize that when you get up you will be able to walk, and what a gift that is, and when you go to drink water there will be water to drink, and what a gift that is.

Sometimes you woke up and you didn’t really awake. You lost days weeks months in a poisoned haze and when you look through your pockets to see what you did for all that time, you realize you’re the kind of person who never puts anything in her pockets.

Sometimes you wake up, and truly, that is all there is. You woke up. There is love in your home. There is nothing more to ask for, except to wake up again.




Feb 4, 2013 poetry , , , , 0 Comments

I am hunting for the sound of you,
scouring songs, dissembling diatribes, to re-find your voice.
I thought I heard you this morning
in the howl of an owl,
but when I listened more closely,
he was just confused.
He said, whoooooo, whoooooo,
As if you two had never met.

Please find me.


Alternate Incarnations


Feb 2, 2013 poetry , , , , , , , 0 Comments

Her love was of the type more quietly known than externally expressed, like a
1950’s father who knows best- the type who loves you with spankings
and admonishment, but keeps a job he hates so that you can go to
a good college and get a job you might hate and
support your own family someday.

If she were a 1950’s father, she’d have drunk heavy-bottomed
tumblers of a thick whiskey, and her stories would be told best
by the clinking ice cubes left behind.

Her love was restrained and curt, as if she were a
1950’s housewife who never left her home without a hat pinned on straight and
matching bag and shoes and when she kissed you, her lipstick
never rubbed off on you because her mouth barely grazed yours.  Her kisses
could be counted on.

If she were a 1950’s housewife, she would never add salt to your food, for
fear of the hypertension you might someday suffer from. It would be bland
food, with kind intentions. She believed in living long.

Everyone loves in a unique way. Of all the people in the world,
she chose me
to love in hers.

Fog, Wall, Monday


May 14, 2012 poetry , , , , , 0 Comments

Mondays descend on me leaden heavy. The time returns to keep track of myself, or at least
try to.

The weekends are the reprieve, there is company constantly.
I know I am difficult, regardless of how I try to not be: difficult to communicate with:
Not understanding, not understood.
In the moments when I manage to be fully present, I wonder what it is like
to have chosen someone so different
From the one you chose.

I am trying so hard to heal.
I am trying to not fight my body, I am trying to not wage war with
this unending pain, this deafening confusion.
I am trying to believe, and to feel, that I will be fine.
I am trying to be grateful that I am alive, that at least most of our family survived this.
I keep thanking my elbows, the only joints that do not feel like they are being pulled away from me
by some unknown evil force.
I keep begging every other joint to take heed.
I keep begging my head to just stop aching.
I am trying to find the lesson, the message.
I am trying so hard to heal.

There is no question that I believe in positivity.
There is no question that I have healed before, and damn well at that.
I don’t know why this is so much harder;
I just know that most of the time now,
I do not know much of what I knew before.
I exist in a hazy tunnel with walls made of fog,
and every time I awake from a daydream
I cannot recall a single thought of it.

Mondays descend on me leaden heavy.
I am off to be encapsulated in oxygen.
I am off to try again.