This. The reason I stay tethered. This. The softness of your hair, the smell of your skin, the vibration of your voice in the hollow of my chest. Tethered. All these years later. To the heat of your hand on my back as I slept. I’m carrying you, every day, everywhere, the weight of you thick in my throat. When do I let go? When do those shadows fade?
I’ve done less complaining about my chosen form this year, but don’t be fooled: this prose poem business is not making me happy. We aren’t anywhere close to being friends. It’s really just not feeling comfortable. The zeno felt comfortable. The tanka felt made for me. The arun was made for me, so of course it felt just fine. This form? It feels clunky and forced. I’m not giving up, just feeling a little smacked about the head by this form.
Are you writing poems this month? Where can I see them?
Let’s share this craziness!