I wrote this poem several years ago from frustration over not being able to write. It seems like a good way to end this blog challenge, since I joined the challenge as a way to make myself not only write but put my writing “out there.” Thank you for anything you might have read here this month.
Photo by Vishwanth Pindiboina on Unsplash
Poet Gets Out –
You locked me in a closet, you bitch,
and ran off to save the world.
I clawed at the door of your subconscious,
your consciousness and your memory.
You said I no longer existed,
but in dreams I made you write
pages and pages of words
you forgot upon wakening.
I slipped into your grant applications,
your speeches. Each time you moved
readers to tears or to money, it was my voice.
When the Courier-News printed your refrigerator box speech
with their editorial on Thanksgiving,
that was me.
When the Home News printed your Jonesy eulogy
and strangers called, when two years later
you saw the clipping on the wall
in a Legal Services office, that was me.
Every little writing spark you’ve had
over the years, no matter how you tried
to stamp it out, was mine.
You can thank me now.
You shut me in here circa 1979
when I started to scare you
with my honesty and possibility.
You, and that unpoetic man you married,
convinced yourself I was a mistake.
Now it’s 20-fucking-23
and you’re getting old,
have run out of energy to save the world.
I’m a little bruised and battered
from banging against this door.
But I’m still alive. And I’ve preserved you:
in here you’re still skinny, have all your hair,
and it’s black at its own root.
Your voice is still strong.
Mighty pissed
but living.
