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.
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
it seems anything could happen
minutes roll by
my eye twitches
wanting another object
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
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.