“Robin” – Painting by Melanie Sinclair, 2002

 

Well, it wasn’t entirely a covert poetry operation. I posted these over the course of April on Twitter @spiritrockssexy.  These micropoems represent my first real foray into approaching the grief poems and songs I’ve held inside me for way too long. I have been allowing myself to feel quietly torn apart over the last several weeks, and that is mostly a good and healing thing.

Some of the poetic tweets I wrote this month will never make it beyond scribbles in my journal.  Here are a few I feel like sharing.

 

If I sit far from the antique aqua phone stand- taut, alert, and newsless-
would that cordless messenger still declare you gone?

 

He’d promised his sex elsewhere.
I pressed into the riverside, coke bottle shard curses flying –
a Zen garden traced, then erased

 

gruff face jumps at mirror
eyes still rise to clever, round frames, oh god I am startled
you are dead
Why do I wear this T-shirt?

 

Fingertip kiss, back of my neck one brush, not captured.
I am deep inside the broken notes.
Somewhere you remember, but not here.

 

dreaming dark chocolate summer, first baby breath wakes-
easy to forget lives not lived, just tongue on tongue
on heartbeat sweat

 

What remains:

the OCD suitcase
black briefs
that burned out aqua vibrator
one remorseful voicemail
and a few rocking tales of woe

 

C’mon, Shame. Decade-old vomit wants out –
with the bean burrito mash and the failure to thrive.
Make your nauseous warmth count.

 

The first no, first fracture, lover’s glow’s first dimming,
lips kiss back to task and pattern,
now we clutch desperate, unmasked

Advertisements