The Poetry Marathon

You woke me from a dream where thre works never ended.

My husband ached; orange candle wax smeared in my ex-husband’s scruff.

You led me to my spot amongst the pillows and skulls, last night’s Pink Cat Cheshire sticky in the glass.

My lovely god of death and ruin.

How gracefully your flesh melts and your voice roughtens.

In your endings I am renewed.

It’s odd.

I’ve been working on my intellectual credentials for years now, but have only honed the words meant for science and math.

This half-marathon serves as a chance to use the words I left along the way. The words that I foolishly discarded in an attempt to appear serious and focused.

I expect some of them may have atrophied in my neglect, but that’s okay. I will use them gently and be kind to myself as I trek through this day. This is a chance to use words as tools instead of weapons.