When I jog, I metabolize my grief. It comes out in staccato burps from my heavy chest. “It’s not comfortable, but you can do it.” That’s the eternal message from the cardio gods.
When I was a kid, I left my body during dance recitals and experienced my performance with the audience. I couldn’t take all those eyes. Now it’s part of my daily dance with grief.
The phrase grief-stricken doesn’t really cut it for me. I feel grief-inundated. Grief-blanketed and enclosed. It’s bigger than my body. And it takes up home in my chest.
I’m meeting unknown parts of myself. Mounds of buried humanity. Digging up the soul. It’s an actual gold mine. She is (I am) (We are) entering this world again, foot firmly planted in the soil. …
I’ve been reborn into
The World of Sensations
Baby pink sweater
Brown soda pop dancing on the tongue
I find it hard to believe
How much there is to feel
~to attune to~
Have you noticed the camera angles on The Office?
One can say a lot just by zooming in
I think I’m finally able to zoom in on life
The mundane is extraordinary
The shower, makeup, hair extravaganza is pleasurable
The way I check my body in the mirror each day
for impurities and fat is saddening
But I had hardly noticed that on
Where do we go when we exit the present moment?
They took my autonomy too many times, so
disappearing into random brain synapses and
the whims of old memories scares me the most
More than drowning
Okay, maybe not more than drowning
Yesterday Momma told me to pack my bags ’cause we’re going to see Grandpa in Elko. She doesn’t realize I already have a bag packed. Got a duffel bag under my bed next to the stack of report cards I’ve been saving. We’re supposed to get those report cards signed by our parents, but I told the art teacher, Ms. Jones, that Momma died last fall so no one bugs me about that, anyway. The duffel bag’s got enough candy bars for a few days of eating and then my favorite sweater, Stripes, and some jeans. I don’t like that Stripes is dedicated to my escape plan, ’cause I never get to wear it anymore. …
I’d just had my springtime date with alcohol. Suicidal thoughts seized my brain. They weren’t just passing through anymore; they were a relentless storm. I got ready to weather my malfunctioning neural pathways, which connected like lightning to the ground.
Another six months of isolation; choosing between the front porch or the back porch for my cigarette. Netflix in my bedroom or on the couch? Talk to my family or shut them out? My normal.
A year later, another night blacked out and vacant.
I don’t quit my job, I just leave. The germs are too threatening and they understand. No doubt my supervisor had overheard me talking about my PTSD to my coworkers. …
My right eardrum ruptured when I was assaulted by a man 8 years my senior
But it makes for good volume control at night
Deaf ear facing the ceiling, the low hum of the furnace disappears
I am confined to a small windowless room during a pandemic
My twinkle lights shine bright
And the morning light never wakes me
An earthquake shook my asbestos-laden home,
Stealing all sense of safety
But my furniture makes every place I land feel like home
It is Easter and there is no family get-together
But mom is making fancy potatoes
She gave me an Easter basket of candy and…