Cabbage Leaves and Closed Doors

I’m going out on a limb here and sharing a poem I recently wrote. Until this poem, I hadn’t written anything in years. Writing poetry used to be ingrained in me, almost a habit I couldn’t break.

And then I did.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped writing, and I hate that it happened. It’s a practice, like anything else, but something I want to do. I need to do.

To write.

Slowly, surely, it will come back again. For now, this is what I have to offer.

Cabbage Leaves and Closed Doors, for Martin, my sugar lump

his back, lit by a pale-moon plug-in

ribs move up and down

inflating, exhaling,

it seems anything could happen

or not.


minutes roll by

my eye twitches

wanting another object

to study

but I stay focused,

watching the shadows

from his mobile

dance across the bed.


what if he stops his diligence?

what if the exhale doesn’t equal

the inhale?


if the world we’ve constructed comes crashing down,

his favorite blocks stacked high and knocked over,

would we still love?

after cabbage leaves soothed my aching breasts

and boxes of toys and clothes were packed,

would we create yet another soul,

secretly hoping it would plug the

void he created by his absence?


he stirs, cries out, scorning my fears.

when he settles, I pull myself away

into the other room where friends savor

mugs of cider around the fireplace.


their faces blur; I smile on cue.

the crackle and pop resound,

as wood burns, breaks, falls.

behind me, through his closed door,

the moon lit room comes into view.

he practices and practices

the constant gasp and sigh,

a whole world hanging in the balance.