Wednesday, December 2, 2015

Untitled, because this poem makes me anxious

I tried really hard to come up with a title for this poem, and I couldn't, because the poem makes me anxious...and the more I look at it, the more I hate it, and the more I look at it, the more I want to burn it, and I also think this is a really important poem, so I'm not going to burn it...........but I'm not going to title it either.

So there.

This poem needs a title, because it needs context so you can know what the heck I'm talking about.  It doesn't really come from the poem.  It's gotta come from the title.  Soooo....I can't totally back out of the title.  It's also 1AM.  I should really go to bed.  This stupid poem is being a jerkface.


I should REALLY go to bed.  

The possible titles I came up with were:

"Home" or  Family Patterns

The still impossible longing hits and penetrates with bulls-eye accuracy:
this wanting settles damp and chill like winter in these bones.
She enters without question the way winter descends--
expected, yet unbidden, known, surprising and unwanted,
the chill is still dangerous without protection and, 
even now,
I want to believe this body can withstand the cold;
want to believe myself impervious to the
way it enters without asking:
I know I am standing, but cold has a way
of making me
so small.

This is the way it happens:
Like freezing,
but not like the Antarctic,
just like somewhere cold
without a coat, or hat, or mittens
because you thought you had something to prove
or maybe
you just wanted to be able
to feel the warmth
in case it happened.
You know?

Next time, I tell myself, just wear the fucking coat--
but don't we know I like to make her comfortable?
Next time, I will find myself praising the way she is warmer than last year.
Next time, I will emphasize the way she is shining the sun in just the right places, and
next time, I will tell her how those icicles are glistening so nicely and how
the hypothermia is tricking my hands into feeling
so warm.

There are choices we must make
to keep ourselves comfortable and
there are choices we must make
to survive.

My body can count its blizzards
like rings inside a tree--
it recognizes each
as one more choice where there was none
like each year that tree had the choice to grow
or say that's enough now
and stop, but it never did if only because
that's not how trees work --
we know that still in winter, they're growing
even if it's
invisible and
deep and

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