Shes cold
elucidate the stoic
controlled emotions not a lack there of
inure the clouds, brighter sun
sweat beads slide from forehead to chin
drip from jawline to shoulder
trace a trajectory from upper arm to wrist
dive from fingers to splash on toes
this glistening body shines in lunar light
slumbers with interruption as fans whirr and hum
desperate to slice into the thick night
The blinking cursor blinks with great expectation.
But the blank page remains blank.
I write and then delete.
I do that often.
I send a message and then unsend it.
I say something and then I wish I could un-say it.
I think a thought and then shake my head to erase that same thought.
I reflect on my social interactions with others and wish I could revise them.
It always could be better, and nothing is ever good enough to let it be as it is.
If it weren’t for deadlines, pressure of ticking clocks,
I’m not sure I’d ever get anything done, because I want perfection.
It is impossible.
I know.
I’ll drive myself insane at this rate.
I know that, too, and it may be too late.
Okay, fine, I give up.
Here is my imperfect string of thoughts.
Do what you will with it.
Say what you will.
Read into it what you will.
I know that I will want to delete this later.
But for now, I’ll let it sit as is.
aphid crawl against my wrist
first time my cousins
have felt like my cousins
we want the funeral to be a celebration
of life
slip hand below rusty shawl
on waist are you doing okay
yes you?
wandering piano chords that night
for lotion for trying to girl
for afterlife for beforelife
for black with a pop of color
for knowing just enough
cheers
with this buggy sparkling juice
They’ll want a lamp
they can turn on by clapping
when the night comes in
or the day is dark with rain.
They’ll use it more in winter,
the crypt where fears fester,
and they hear their mortality
clearing its throat in the corner
In the room where they’d love you
to stay and stave off the shadows
they’ll want a lamp
they can turn on by clapping
but you are the light of the sun.
I
Inspired by The Writing Prompt for The Fool from “Tarot Rituals” by Nancy C Antenucci and Paint Chip Poetry
Apples, carrots, and oats
I believe it’s going to rain
here in a bit
both the sky and the forecast predict
my thoughts drift to realism
the fact that life can take a turn
or two or three and perhaps
it’s perfectly acceptable to look forward to the rain
to anticipate with open hands, ready to splash about
march through puddles, watch through a window
allow what seems an inconvenience to morph into a blessing
and sometimes we choose, don’t we
how it will all turn out, whether we’re saturated and changed
or left simply standing in the downpour
Wings all a flutter
floating your tiny body
midair, hovering
as you pull sweet nectar through
your efficient siphoned beak.
