so … um, er … yeah, there’s this poem-ish thing

There’s this poem-ish thing that surprised me, including how it told me in no uncertain terms that I would end it just as the muse instructed, though my first instinct was to delete-delete-delete. Here goes. It’s been a while. I don’t have a title. I’m in shock that I have a poem. A poem-ish thing!


You have said mostly
nothing. Not Please,
no. Not Fuck you.
Not even Good bye.
And I also speak little
about this farewell
we suffer. No damage
from strange summer
earthquakes or hurricanes
but the rubble of this —

I have heard those
who are buried alive
can’t be freed all at once,
the weight upon them
lifted slowly enough
as not to shock
the lungs, the heart,
or flood tissue
with too much
rushing in all at once.

Or is that the theory
about leaving
the knife in the wound? No,
that rule’s about losing
everything, spilling more blood
than is necessary to prove
your point.


Or maybe there’s a clue to the title in that last line … I dunno.

a stone in a river, 18

she says it’s not the light that bothers her
but the whirring clicks that picture
her grey matter, spotted
signs she is well
on her way


/ / /

My mother had an MRI today to try to access the condition of her brain & count how many mini-strokes she might have had. Her biggest fear is a major stroke. I imagine it is all our fears.