Hello hello, I’m posting a poem here because my brain has completely exploded from the world of submitting, and to welcome those of you who have journeyed here from my TikTok or otherwise. I wanted to share some work with you, yes, you, who have so graciously visited the website that I pay too much money to keep in existence and also don’t really know how to use.
Under heavy inspiration from Ross Gay, my challenge for this poem was to refrain from any editing, meaning it was born in my notes app and it will most likely die here. This one is about trying to find joy when I want to hurt myself. It’s been difficult for me to write lately, and yet it always feels like something I must do. Lorna Goodison calls poetry a tyrant. Thank you for hearing my words. You all are very kind.
Cracked Dice
| I am trying to climb over the snowbanks but all the change keeps falling out of my pockets. I have to run back and collect it all and I keep slipping and the snow starts again, it always starts again when I walk so I walk until I find a turquoise pack of Newports still warm in their cellophane. I walk until I find a red die in the pavement crack, its face between two and three, and I smile, think I should call a poem that. When I reach the doldrums, I crush milk thistle in my fist until pink powder coats the chasms of my palms. I wait for it to work. It is only then that I learn that some things can only reflect, like how sunlight cannot pass through ash. I used to look up and expect someone to be listening. When I looked up I saw a murmuration |