Steps
Overloaded with emotion because I think Greg is now back in my sphere and I haven't heard from him but that makes complete sense since he's been gone forever and has experienced what he has and probably returned to a several hundred item long list of things to accomplish upon return. Not thinking about it. Or, am, but am shoving it aside. It's like I said previously: this is either happening, or it isn't. It is rather out of my control. So that is that on that.
Work becomes increasingly painful. I am swamped with things to do (we all are) and I oftentimes think jabbing my jugular with a sharp object would be less bloody. (And god, could the back of my neck GET more sweaty in this hot apartment? Need ice packs strapped on. Hey, summertime. What's up you brutal ASSHOLE.) Can't find a hair thing (rubber band) in the apartment though I'm not looking too hard, just whining and moaning. I have nearly resorted back to biting my nails as I did when I was a young girl. God, I thought I grew out of that.
But today, I will say...some incredible things did happen. When I throw that word out there, I hope it's understood that it means many things (like, I became incredibly irritated with a coworker that is on his last straw with me, I became incredibly ecstatic to share a poem with a friend, and I ate incredible sushi before crawling home tonight, all incredibles) and so I feel justified yet again for being on this confusing planet.
Poem thing. I cannot stop myself now, especially as I age and age, from feeling more and more like I should be classifying myself as a poet. Maybe I'm giving myself way way way too much credit, but you know, at some point this should have been inevitable. I have been a prolific writer for so long that at some point, KB, call it like it is.
So, what happened is that the LitQuake organization for which I've submitted a bunch of work asked me for some "fun facts" from the editors. I sent them, and one of mine mentioned an adjective that Sharon years ago marked out on a poem and recommended to me that I'm "too good for that word." How amazing, she thrills me. Anyway, that was one of my fun facts and I told Suzanne half of this in an email and she begged to know the adjective. So I shared the whole poem with her. Here:
vacancy agrees with her.
she's got a sore throat,
stirs odysseys into her cup of tea,
and some Cointreau.
vacancy agrees with her.
she stirs tea, old odysseys,
and some Cointreau.
she's brave.
she's bending down to tie a lace.
she's been here before,
plotting plants, sifting seeds, pulling weeds
in a kitchen sweaty as dawn.
she's here,
battling brevity, bravery and bewilderment.
"i want my money back," she says
slapping the sweaty barely-beating heart
on the store counter.
"i'm afraid you didn't buy that here," the sales clerk says.
she offers me a cigarette, bends a knee
to adjust the heel of a shoe,
cupping a hand on my shoulder to balance her weight,
her stomach a porcelain plate.
red licks the rims of the glass
as we sip wine, suck the nectar down.
either way, a crimson tornado
twists in the small of the glass.
she stirs a liturgy into the glass,
watching the words drip down
a drop of honey,
a sip of tea, like the whisper
of the suicidal sea.
Suicidal was the word in question with Sharon, who told me I was too good for that word. But here was Suzanne's reply to me sending her this poem, and while this poem was penned back so far that I can barely remember writing it (I think in 2007? 2008?) I am still the Owner of it, so I may as well park myself next to it as an accomplishment because yeah, I did write it. So, whatever. But, here was S's reply, which soared me to so many levels the rest of the day. Because I affected someone, slightly. Means a lot.
Your poem. I LOVE. Really, really lovely. and funny. and tragic. Honestly, I am no poet, but I don't mind the adjective.
posted by KB at 9:59 PM
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