The Poetry Marathon

Coarse black horse hair

stems between my breasts;

a symptom with an easy cure.

T he

L ast

P air cas

C          aded in a blue

G                      littered velvet vamp that

M                                 ade my chunky shins look like Cat Woman’s.

I

carried

the                 barefoot

while                           I hobbled

and                             cast them in the closet with the others

That                            I will not wear again, the leather

Kitten                                     heels and cork pumps, the stiletto boots that kill my back.

I

M         iss

T          hem and

I           still feel

Them              In the bone

M                                 arrow of my hurting soles.

My skeleton in the closet

Circled through my mind through

Every first glass of wine

And every first kiss.

When do I tell him?

First or second or third date became never

Until the relationship faltered and jolted

Because he sensed trust issues and maybe something more

Leaning on his shoulder the scars

Of harassment and injury slipped

By easily enough but not the misdiagnosis

of bipolar or the panic I feel

when a clump of hair falls out

or even the innocent

fact that my body cannibalizes its own muscle

and my energy is a ticking grenade

wearing thin

Or the real diagnosis of

Future diabetes and improbable children…

No, I think that will wait.

“Commitment to self is the longest commitment of all.”

Heres to the girl who no one can figure out
The girl that I don’t know
The girl who’s always higher
Than anyone in the room
The girl who’s in the pit
Where no one else can reach
The girl who makes bad choices
For the smartest reasons
And good choices for the dumbest
The girl who can’t make it out of bed
But spends every penny of herself
The girl who runs harder to run at all

Here’s to me. Because you’re worth it.

She’s worth it.

I am worth it.

The mystic counsel of the national

endocrinology society have declared

Poly

Cystic

Ovary

Syndrome

to be

Metabolic

Reproductive

Syndrome.

And so my celibate gaggle

of letters becomes a title

a position, almost a

degree to describe

the relation my life

is bound to this syndrome –

not disease.

The questions

the confusion

multiply exponentially

What’s it to you? I ask them.

What Shakespeare said.

“I’m just on my way –

what? No way –

keys.

Where are the keys

Seriously?

Where’s my purse

And my credit cards

And my brain.

My poor lost mind.

Then I’ll be on my way.”

He garnished it with parsley

sprinkled it with salt

but it was still whattheysaid.

I wanted his thoughts raw.

I can’t compare myself to Sleeping Beauty

but I might say I’m like her castle

buried by an intricate maze of thorny

symptoms that incestuously feed

from each other but maybe I’m the princess –

buried somewhere inside the chaos

in a tower that doctors can’t find.

This is what happens when you let yourself go

greasy fries and Coca Cola

processed foot

saturated fat

sugars

-that’s what they judge when they see you

not the hours at the gym

sweat, tears, menu restrictions

visible torture summarized by two words:

insulin resistance.

I’d like to invent

a speed dating event

for doctors.

I don’t have the time

or the energy

or the interest

to invest in the horde who only want me for my money

who, like the true mysoginists they are, say I’m making my issues up

label them as “women’s issues”

prescribe a one-size-fits-all pill.

No – I can’t take more of them than

the satisfaction of looking in their faces

and saying No thanks. Moving on.