The poetic impulse has left me so far in the dust my eyelids are gritty. Instead I see the chocolate on the sheet Poop? Smell it. Not poop. NO EATING IN HERE!
Clumps in the litter box by the laundry and the DISHES! How often do these children eat!?
My ass grown flat, sex that's never sexy Put the wedge under—Clifford is 27 minutes long—the door! Hurry up! Shhh! Sh! Close the door! Close the door!
Watching TV at night, not playing violin, not reading. Not being interesting.
Inner life? The still-small is mote-sized but it's there, under breath, so quiet. Faces of Photini, of Mary. Mary gentle mother I had no idea it would be like this so chaotic so much pressure feeling of being erased help me
GET DRESSED! GET DOWN HERE! BRUSH YOUR TEETH! Dammit I've got to stop yelling at them
but when we light our candles, the flame is more poetic than any impulse I've ever had. And my arms are full of wriggling, red-haired beauty!
It's better. Why do I grieve? This is everything. More than enough. Here is everything.
love this.
ReplyDeleteI do too and am certainly beginning to feel much of this rising up in me.
ReplyDeleteoh this is so moving. Why do I grieve? stunning.
ReplyDelete