Soapbox

This morning I wrote the best poem of my life,

the poem I've always wanted to write, but never could

because my brain just doesn't put words together like that.
But this morning, I found those words

And I credit you with the conception.
 

Because of you, I couldn't get to sleep when I got home last night

so I sat up and watched some movie-

I remember only enough about it to know that it provided the thread

from which my dreams, when they finally came, were woven.

Danger and rescue, loyalty, betrayal and then redemption:

they were all there, then shattered, as dreams so often are, by waking.

When I opened my eyes in the darkness of a winter's dawn

the dream was broken, but the pieces floated and spun and suddenly merged

and there it was- a poem, the poem of my life,

a master work

patched together from the colored remains of a dream,

a poem like real poets write,

with sharp imagery as stark as bare bones glinting in the moonlight,

and every word drawn in blood and ice.

I lay back and it unspooled across my brain

a movie of words narrated by an inner voice I thought spoke only to other people

with metaphors heaped bright and generous like Christmas morning.

There was one about the senselessness of crying over whiskey spilled 

across a bar that you know you should have left an hour ago…

but it was worded better than that somehow.

 

The poem was in the form of a note left for the police

explaining why the writer had to flee the scene of a crime they witnessed but did not commit,

an act they would have done, though- wanted to, but never did,

did not expect to be believed about and could not bear the blame for-

don't you see- it was a metaphor in itself

for the poetry that I hear all around me, and think

"That's how my poems are supposed to sound.

That's how I"m supposed to write"

but I never do

because instead of the firm, glistening clay of dreams and metaphor

I build with dry sand

shapeless mounds of words that mean to be a grand edifice,

but slump  across the mental landscape

then slide and drift to nothing.

 

But there it was this morning, the right kind of poem,

all sharp planes and acute, bitter angles,

shouting itself, stacatto and impassioned across my brain.

And all I had to do was get up and write it down…

but it needed a powerful conclusion, and there were still a few rough edges,

lines that I found my brain running over and over, stroking, worrying,

trying to file down clean and sharp

and since the poem was born from my dreams, it was easy to make myself believe

that if I just went back to sleep

I could make it perfect,

a child born beautiful, but a moment too soon

returned to the waters of its creation to allow its lungs to mature

in preparation for its first breath in the world.

 

I know.

but self deception comes easily on dark mornings

and a thousand opportunities are lost in the time between the alarm's first call

and feet finding the floor.

I closed my eyes again but the words kept pushing, shouting,

and in unfocused sleep they lost their aim

and became, not tools to delicately refine my newly discovered clay

but knives, stabbing and breaking with frustrated longing,

bullets sprayed from the machine gun of last night's movie

and when I woke again from my troubled, bloody nap

all that remained of the poem I always wanted to write

was the tattered corpse of subject

and glittering bits of imagery,

dust slowly drifting ground-ward

through the ticking silence of  bullet-shocked air.

It’s the snake that lives in the pit of my stomach
often drowsy but never fully asleep
rousing from its torpor at the most inconvenient of times
to writhe and twist within me.

I am a worrier. It’s what I do.
As a mother, it is my job to anticipate trouble
taking both the point and rear-guard positions in my childrens’
sometimes zig-zagging advance through life,
and I take that job seriously.
The day my first child was born,
the day they handed me that sticky little thing
and said “You’re in charge now” 
I began to worry.
That night in the hospital I worried that they were paging an x-ray tech to the NICU
because someone had dropped my baby.
I knew it was silly
but I also know that a piece of my heart was suddenly living outside me
and I could never really protect it any more.
Life is a high-wire act,
and all the safety nets I had ever worked with were stripped away.
The snake began to uncoil within me.

I know that constant worry is useless.
I understand that this restless concern over nothing in specific serves no purpose
except to deepen the wrinkle between my eyes,
rob me of sleep and disturb my digestion.
No anxiety over someone’s health ever did a thing to keep them healthy,
no unease over a lack of direction suddenly filled another person
with determination and purpose.
But there it is, and there it remains
a parasite that takes up a little too much room,
leeches energy and brightness
leaving me afraid to relax for fear it will suddenly strike.
I have learned to live with it, to placate it in small ways-
music, meditation, chocolate.
I cannot remove it but I can, mostly de-fang it,
prevent the freezing burn of its venom from paralyzing me.
I know that it is a weakness.
I have been told that it demonstrates a profound lack of faith,
that such worry is an affront to God, who surely could handle all my problems
if only I would turn them all over to Him.
I have tried praying to God to keep me from worrying
about the funny noise my daughter’s car is making
but the inner knowledge that God will neither repair the transmission
nor rescue her from the side of the road if she is stranded on a dark night
guaranteed the failure of that attempt.
And so I recite the liturgy of all the things that I do not have to worry about…
… poverty, homelessness, alcoholism, abuse, addiction, cancer…
yes, I know I am blessed, thank you.
But I know it could all be wiped away in a heartbeat.

.And so, I worry. 
Just a little bit…. around the edges.
Despite this weakness, I am strong enough in most ways:
I appreciate life’s joys both large and very small.
I sing and write, bake bread, walk the dogs
and mostly I ignore that sliding of scales deep within me
as the snake stretches, restless, always a bit unsettled,
looking for a new fear to sink its teeth into.
I am smart enough not worry too much about why I can’t stop worrying,
strong enough, at least, to shoulder my own burdens
rather than shift them to someone else

And after all, doesn’t God love those who help themselves?

Ever since I got up this morning
I have been feeling rather freaked out
by the whole “individual consciousness” thing-
how each of us is utterly alone inside our brain.
Also “Why am I even here” and “What’s next” seem like a really big deal today.

I hate when that happens.
Now, just walking through my day,
buying groceries, going to work
somehow seem like threatening activities
because these ghostly hands are pulling at me,
asking questions about my existence
that I cannot answer.

When you wake up and realize that you don’t get it,
do not understand life on a fundamental level today,
looking at other people’s faces and knowing you will never see their hearts
feels like swimming through life with rocks in your pockets
and the opposite shore seems terribly far away.
A formless anxiety buzzes in your ears and won’t go away.
It leeches the color out of the day

Sometimes I can get past it, though
if I can go for a walk in the woods
and it is quiet, and the light is just right
and the breath of the trees comes just so.
Sometimes kissing my babies and smelling their skin
and feeling the incredible weight of their trust as they sleep in my arms
puts this disquiet to rest
but the wind is so cold today and  my babies are grown.
So when my brains circles and circles, looking for a place to land
I crawl into your arms
and there I find, if not understanding, at least peace
in the sound of your breathing.