where has my writing gone?

Written about two years ago after a long stretch without writing. It’s been another long stretch and I’m glad it’s back. Rusty but real. 

Where has my writing gone?

It has gone the way of an anthill

Stepped on by a little kid

All that remains is a little smudge of sand

And 1,000 homeless ants

Where has my writing gone?

It has gone the way of my mother’s

Attempts to get fit

My father’s attempts to quit TV

And the number of times I told myself

I fucked up

Where has my writing gone?

It dripped from your eyes the night

I admitted I was scared

And you said you were too

It drips from my eyes

As I write this now

Where has my writing gone?

It was gone every time

I said a prayer to busy

Started a timer

Made a list

Where has my writing gone?

It was gone every time

I told myself I was telling you the truth

Even though I knew you don’t understand

The way I do.

Where has my writing gone?

Today I reached into the sink

To unclog the drain

And felt something too soft

Thinking it might be a piece of chicken fat

Leftover from lunch

I curled my hands around it

And swallowed a shudder

A mouse drowned

By dirty dishwater

Where has my writing gone?

It has gone the way of the chicken wings I ate for lunch

Never meant to fly very far

All that remains is bones.

untitled sonnet 12.16

Pitying health professionals haunt me
still, remembering the moments my tears
made my body, my mind so slippery
to their authority, hurry, their fear

they wouldn’t have an answer, my wounds gaped
and gangrene grew from thinking others know
like the teachers, the coworkers who taped
an ex on my chest before I could sew

myself together with a star, six points
of sunlight swirling up and swirling down
marigold streams from above, violet anoints
my forehead, from below, a deep green-brown

of knowing that I will burn regardless
of their scent, I will burn into softness.