I’m Back

 

Dear reader, it’s been a while.

Every time something funny happened these past few weeks, I wished I could have told you. I’ve missed you just so damn much.

(This feels very much like a text from an ex you’d much rather punch in the throat than update on your life, but I promise. I am far more sincere.)

I haven’t gone anywhere, dear reader, trust me. I’ve been here–literally right here in my bed–writing bits and plotting. I haven’t been sharing my writing, but instead listening to more important voices.

The world has been unkind to far too many people whose voices are, more often than not, drowned out. I hope you’ve been listening to them. I hope you keep listening.

In the midst of this pandemic/justice war, poetry feels unimportant–especially my poetry which rides the line between a fever dream and sleepover gossip.

But.

In a world of real-life villains who are much harder to understand than any lofty metaphor, poetry is where I go.

So I wrote this poem about borrowing.

I have a really gnarly habit of forgetting I’ve borrowed something, then being too scared of the embarrassment I’d feel returning it after such an unacceptably long time.

I’d say this makes me a bad person, but I feel like I am a bad person for reasons completely unrelated to the borrowing. Anyway.

This poem took quite a drastic turn when I decided that the best way to sneak under a locked door to return something you’ve “borrowed”, is to spill like a glass of water. Strap in, dear reader. It’s a weird one

I’m fond of it though. It’s been lovely to write again.

Here it is, to borrow.

 

 

rain for a borrowed umbrella

 

that I could leave it there–some dead night. doors locked from the inside

so that I must by some witchery leave no toe or hip bone for the dogs. a glass of water. 

maybe. who spills under doors and leaves after just a while. doing well the thing water

does when left unused.

oh me. I’ll leave it where I found it but without the curses. I’ve swallowed them for you. little toy soldier i won’t let you drown. I’ll leave what’s needed and promise. when I fall again it won’t be here. where your eyes find sky and wish me gone. 

when they’d call for me. those sweaty men with pointer fingers extended. you’d groan. cancel birthdays. make unsuccessful bread. have sex. again. and i’d see it all for just a while. caught in my falling.

instead I start at the end. I blow west and then west I will outlive you.

but without the tears. I will see again surely through the glass 

little green soldiers. boots at the door. toy umbrella shut tight and bound by little fingers made of you. a miniature army. growing as I fall. 

becoming something else.

 

Keep listening, sweet reader. Wear a goddamn mask.

Big love.