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 overwhelmed.
I’m tired.
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
density
only a limp
phrase which
sags in the
center like
wet clay
dampening the tips of
fingers
moistening the verbs
the hinges are in place
but there is only
the low blank
noise of sentences
(alone)
I remind myself though that writing is never a solitary act.
That is the holy yes!
Yes?