(Source: https://www.youtube.com/)
29/30
Just because I left
the bed we made
doesn’t mean I don’t
want it to be empty.
I don’t know why –
I don’t want you
to be alone – but
the curve of her body
would feel like a thief,
stealing my warmth
taking the shape I left.
I don’t know why
but leaving did not
take with it the fear
of being left.
26/30, 27/30
I know I don’t owe anyone an explanation about the gaps in my 30-poems-in-30-days undertaking. But I want to give some context anyway, if nothing else then out of appreciation for those who have liked or reblogged or commented on my writing so far. It is comforting to feel less like shouting into a void, like I am hearing sounds bounce off solid beings across the dark. Thank you for keeping me inspired, and accountable.
I took some time this weekend to go off the grid and sink into a safe haven of trees and hot springs and streams. I haven’t spoken to anyone so little in a long time, and it was a sharp relief, knowing I didn’t have to try and tune in to or accommodate anyone else. I focused my energy inward, bathed the parts of me that have been suffering with compassion and light and acceptance, as I let the hot pools of water soak my tired body. I sat with recent heartaches, the ending and changing of important relationships, the death of a patient I was close with (see 23/30). The openings and messages that emerged out of that time with the water and rocks and stars – they are swimming around in me still, waiting to be clarified. But I managed to catch small handfuls of them in my journal, and wanted to share them. Thank you for catching the sparks from my little heart and lighting me up with yours.
Grief as a Hot Spring
The heat is excruciating at first,
but my skin eventually stops
screaming that it is burning
and my breath relaxes again,
as if to say – yes. Yes to pain.
Yes to discomfort. My muscles
groan in reluctant pleasure.
Where did it come from, this myth
of healing being pleasant, easy?
I feel salt scouring even the tiniest
wounds. I look at my body through
the water – the skin all distorted
and strange. I ponder my deformities.
My body is a stranger now. I know
that I will feel lighter afterwards.
That I need not stay all night.
My fingers pucker. My face flushes.
I was made to endure, but also
to keep moving.
Things to Learn from Water
Move, constantly.
Shape paths into the earth.
Smooth hard rock into curves.
Flush out wounds.
Clear away old skin.
Reflect honestly.
Carry, or simply hold.
Quench and sustain.
28/30
Tiger
There is a tiger in my belly
a steady growl churns
my insides the claws
clench into me knife-sharp
curves I know
he is awake.
There is a memory
crouched low abdomen
grazing earth bones
taut angles eyes lit
on prey brain fixed
on survival body snapped
forward crazed instinct
swift chase vicious
attack pierce rip jerk
violence casual skillful
artful and utterly
guiltless hunger satisfied.
There is a tiger in my belly
he does not understand
my shrinking shame
my small sacrifices
of self. He snarls
at those I call friends
that leave me hungry.
He flexes his claws
restless and moody
the way a housecat
massage-pricks the legs
of someone from whom
it expects a meal
or a kinder touch.
24/30
Intimacy is surrendering
your ugliest stains
and watching them
become watercolors
in another’s hands.
23/30
Z
Press your palm into the skin of your chest. The sun is so bright, or maybe we only notice during tragedies. You imagine your hand keeping the wind from blowing through you, your fingers covering a clean, raw hole. You are shocked by the brightness of the day. There is a walk behind an abandoned warehouse, belly-shaking laughter in a phone conversation, brief comfort in sharing the air with someone else. But it is time to go to bed and your heart is full of her. Your heart is empty of her. Sometimes you mistake every girl between the ages of 3 and 11 for a childhood reflection and you want to scoop them all up into your arms and perch them on your shoulders and let them see how beautiful, how proud they will be. How un-small they will feel. Sometimes they crowd your chest and you cannot imagine losing one. Sometimes you lose one. Press your hand over your heart. There was brief comfort in sharing the air, of vibrating it in your throats, of creating frequencies. The sun is so bright. Press your palm into your skin. She was not your reflection but you loved her un-small. You were not her but it cradled the girl of you. There was belly-shaking laughter, songs in a hospital room, sharing the air. Press your palm into your skin. You are shocked by brightness. Press harder. Let it hurt. Sometimes you mistake 6 years old for 23 years old for 90 years old. Let it hurt. How small she was, how proud. Perch her on your shoulder. Let her see how beautiful she is. Let it hurt.
22/30
Lessons My Neuroses Have Taught Me
If I rake my fingernails across my scalp
you will not be mad at me
If I pick at every imperfection on my face
I will be good enough for you
If I finish my plate, the box, the bag, the container,
you will not be disappointed with me
If I stay out of the way, no questions, no arguments,
you will be happy
If I don’t talk,
I will not hurt you
If I don’t ask for anything,
I will not burden you
If I sit quietly without resistance,
I will absorb all of your upset
If I dig my fingernail beneath the other
until each has a sharp, red half-circle,
If I scrape myself clean of scabs
from scraping myself clean of scabs
from scraping, until I am raw with guilt,
If I shrink my insides, grow small in my skin
until I can swallow it all, absorb every ounce
of sadness, disappointment,
every fault you feed me,
until I am gorged with shame,
you will know that I love you.
21/30
Loneliness Parade
Excellent turnout this year. Of course,
having Facebook as a sponsor
always ensures a massive audience.
There goes their float now –
all the streams of photos,
acquaintances on rock climbing trips
and Sunday brunches, posing
with friends that I have never
taken pictures with. Waving,
grinning at their spectators.
They live for this.
Then the ex-lovers,
the natural progression.
Hanging out the windows of
the town’s biggest fire truck.
You can hear them for miles.
Each one of their faces
a nuanced shade of heartache.
They all seem to be getting along,
weirdly enough. I wonder
which of my vulnerabilites
is sandwiched between them,
pressed in the intimacy of bodies.
I cannot see what parts of me
they are still holding. I try
not to think about it
and chase after the candy
they throw to the streets.
It is a long procession
of friends drifted or drifting,
of pictures of my childhood house,
of nighttime radio hits of the 90’s,
of people I knew in elementary school,
of the familiar becoming unfamiliar
until it is a stream of faces
until my head is full of strangers
until it is so crowded
I deliberately mistake the noise for static
and pretend I am in a quiet room
and I open my eyes
and there I am.
20/30
Reasons
Because you loved me as I was.
Because you looked into my unfinishedness
and told me I was perfect.
Because we could lie in your bed all day
watching the sun move across the window.
Because content.
Because there was no reason to move.
Because I am a comfort junkie
and you were an endless IV.
Because you told me, over and over,
I didn’t have to know.
Because I kept not knowing.
Because my sadness could not
follow me to your house.
Because it started to.
Because my favorite parts of me
are in a room marked Metaphor
and you loved the translations
that I wrote you.
Because I became a translator.
Because my darkness got lonely.
Because you loved me as I was:
unfinished. Because unmotivation.
Because there was no reason to move,
to write, just translate.
Because I started to forget
my own language.
Because content.
Because discontent.
Because there is a book within me
waiting to be written.
Because I am a writer.
Because the loneliness
of language barriers.
Because the sun moving
across the window.
Because I have to know.
18/30
Thoughts on a Palliative Visit
The little blue bear
traps the heat
of your bare skin
on its fur
sitting at your side
cradled in your arm
by accident
a small gesture
of comfort
the machines click
and gasp and
your eyes are still
like his
your chest is still
rising and falling
shifting little bear
I forget you do not
expand on your own
I forget what
is keeping you alive
I look at the bear
I look at the bear
the air is tight around us;
we are a lung
holding its breath.
When this room is empty
of family and IVs
and your beaten frame
I wonder about his fate.
I wonder where he will go
this memento
of choked goodbyes
Will they leave him
is it too hard
remembering him there
a softness at your side
holding your last breaths