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The Weepies- Nobody Knows Me At All


I wrote this poem in the shower.
I wrote this poem when I realized the top of the window in the shower had dropped and made an insect entrance.
I wrote this poem days after meeting new wasps tapping at my kitchen window and wondering how they were getting in.
I wrote this poem after finding a dead one in the drain.
I wrote this poem while I was shaving my legs and hoping you might ask me to get on the plane with you.
I wrote this poem knowing that if I shaved, you wouldn’t take me.

I am writing this poem because someone told me to channel my energy into art, and I want him to feel helpful
like a child with a spoon smoothing a batter,
and to prove that I cannot cook metaphors right now.
This really happened. I cannot bake a beige cake.

I am writing this poem  to put up a warning that says ‘Wet Paint’ on the door in order to keep me out.
I am  writing this poem so I don’t ever have to write this poem again.
This poem has stripes and a stinger and came in through in bathroom window.
The rest of this poem’s life beats against the kitchen panes
which I keep closed but with the blinds cocked like the eyebrow of an amateur detective mimicking instinct.

This poem is solved.

The insect cuddles an elbow noodle and a lemon ride in a perforated grave.
I wash my hands over this poem.
My hands smell like radishes and foam like a rabid prayer.

I dry this poem with a white towel draped over the oven handle.
This is no longer a poem since I am no longer in the shower
where I wrote this naked while turning my slick hair into a knot
while water collected at my feet,
while I washed the places I cannot reach and discovered that freckle you worry about.
That tiny spot between my toes isn’t cancer. It’s the lonely place on my body only you know.

The whole time I wrote this poem, I worried about getting to paper,
frantic that I’d forget my own language
before I was dry, that after I’m dry I must moisturize,
how after that there is only a window
of time before my hair dries and needs an iron to tame it.

This is when this poem stopped being a poem
and became my routine.

You aren’t here to see that I washed my breakfast dish naked
and how this aroused another insect who began to launch its body against the window
at once begging and threatening me to love it by freeing it.

I leave the dishes undone and go back to the bathroom mirror
rake mascara over my eyelashes,
bat them until I fly.

One Comment

  1. Larry Hill wrote:

    Wow. I haven’t read one of these in awhile. Have you just started again or an I oblivious? How are you doing?

    Sunday, September 17, 2017 at 4:30 pm | Permalink

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