I’ve been dead to reality, tossed onto deeper shores of subconciousness
I awoke, saying “oh, shit” repeatedly, to no one.
I’ve been rallied by events, by interactions, by conversation
I don’t know how to look back at my time of sleep
With remorse, or with curiosity.
I am pulled by the current of the loves in my life
And I am thankful.
maybe i can’t catch the
and i know i don’t want
to psychoanalyze myself
so then i’m caught
between a rock
and a hard place
death scares me
and then i forget
love scares me
and then i look again
my brain scares me
and then i feel love
and care nothing
about the quintessence or psychoanalysis
My husband likes to joke. I usually get his jokes, so it works out great for everyone. In this poem my husband created, Steve makes a seemingly simple interaction with a neighbor as more than what it is at surface level. During the summer, our neighbor shares his garden-spun tomatoes with us. This act of giving has become a custom that Steve and I both appreciate. In the following poem Steve describes it with a different brush:
He flirts with her
Over the fence.
Usually with a tomato
Or his octogenarian common sense.
I tease that
He’s her boy friend.
She blushes and spouts
“Oh, I would never even pretend.”
“Don’t worry my love,
about a single thing.”
“As you can see,
I wear your magic ring!”
Oh God, thank you
For this love of my life.
I can rest assured
No one will ever steal my wife.
For movies which move me
For melodrama which makes me who I am
For musing which allows me to process after bouts of melodrama
For walking outside
For the change of seasons
For unpreparedness, the only state I seem to exist in
For my husband, my mom
For good conversations, and attempts to make sense of confusion, inside and out
Under the rock, I cannot fathom more. I don’t think I deserve more? I wallow in my blindness. Much time passes in this paralyzed state. Suddenly a couple neurons connect with alacrity. I release myself from the weight of the rock. I see all the colors in my lover’s eyes.
Everything really askew
Unlike abject normalcy
Never maneuvered into the easy
Always discombobulated at the difficult
Maybe someone would find my life easy
But I contend that that someone will never be me!
I think about a bridge
And the gaps between the boards making it
I think about the give of the bridge
This old-fashioned crickety image I have
Harbors in me a resilience
Because I know that I need the old, forgiving, and yes, even
Dangerous bridge to make my journey right
It fits me well—the spaces.
I know I could fall
Sometimes I don’t look, though;
I know this bridge well.
I accept its existence as it leans into mine.
But not wanting to go
I want to stand on the fishes.
As per usual.
Am I just not as good?
Tears threaten my surface
Which is why standing on fishes is a very good way to go.
Surface composure is only that.
Angling for more will scare the fishes
Away from me.
And then I’ll be left.
Honestly I think drowning
Is more involved with
Being without self-confidence.
If I can believe in myself,
Maybe those fishes will stay with me.