I’m one of those people who, for better or worse, can only write what’s true. And the truth for today is ugly:
I’m disappointed by my seeming inability to cope.
I need a massive infusion of grace.
A holy yes.
So I offer this poem about my struggle to even write:
Country we come to only by leaving
There are no words
with weight and
only a limp
sags in the
dampening the tips of
moistening the verbs
the hinges are in place
but there is only
the low blank
noise of sentences
I remind myself though that writing is never a solitary act.
That is the holy yes!