The Poetry Marathon

Do you understand when I say
I tried? I’m tired. Dishes have
amassed. I am dirty. I’ve worn
this nightgown for three days,
coral palms fading and white
background turning toward grey.
I did. I do. I try. How to explain
the fear? I’m frightened of leaving
my fortress, grey sheets, grey
comforter, grey seal for comfort.
One way in. One way out. My
kingdom of growled secrets.
My heart slams out a drum line,
my diaphragm punched in time.
I’m dizzy, leather couch turning
into a spire. Corkscrew into
oblivion. There is no beauty
in this. Can I bloom my forearm?
My thigh? My breastbone?
Cocoa pebbles help, but they’ve
been gone two weeks. A banana
because I promised. Coffee is
a reasonable substitute. There is
milk or cream. Both if I hunger.
Some days I float above my body
and watch, indifferent. Wish I could
turn it off or change
the channel. Or change. Just
change. How can I tell you
the pain of breathing, even when
I remember nothing? How
can I be seen?
The body will say no.
The body keeps the score.

Shrieks. Uncovered memory.
Get up. Get out.
Vulnerable, trusting, three years
old. Afraid of the dark, of dark
smiles, of dark men. Screams
that bleed the throat,
phlegm and blood and mucus.
Wake up. Get out.
Navy shirt, Navy hand,
navy darkness when he flips
the switch. Flesh under small
soft nails, begging to be heard.
Please. Listen. Please. Help.
Brushed off, lively
imagination, lights turned
off. Still there with eyes
opened, with hands filled
with acorn curls, large strong
nails hiding flesh beneath.
Get up. Get out.
Coughs producing blood. Get
it all out. Purge. Purge the phlegm
and mucus and memory.
Come back.
Scream. Scream. Scream. Scream.
Afraid of the dark. Every light
on. He’s still there, gentle voice.
Slapped on the shoulder, embraced
by those brighter than he. Brushed
off. Begging. Screaming.
Cold tile beneath. Get out.
Wake up. Screams and coughs.
Afraid of dark men and their dark
smiles. Helpless and three years
old. Ignored. Overreacting.
Active imagination. Screams.
Wake up. Come back.
Urine on tile, ice pack on crown.
Scream. Blood. Purge. Wake up.

I traveled the system,
the secret system no one
whispers about, fear they will
be thrown in. I am a historian.
I am a journalist. I belong here.

Just for stabilization.

Converted motel. Roommates
three feet apart. Teresa with
the stutter. Teresa with the
seizures. Teresa with the open
heart, broken. Teresa with
the fear. Teresa with the tenderness,
the fall.

Equine face against mine. Tears.
Mystery tears. Shoulders caved
inward, collapsing my rib cage. I
cannot sing. I could not. I cannot still.

Med lines. Glucose test.
Blood pressure, temp,
inverted moon. Bowel movement?
Rate your pain. Days I felt
homesick. Did not want to leave.

Where the crazy people go.

Where the hurt people go.
Where the pain took us when
there was a dead end or a thread
or a bridge or a rope.

Too much for one poem.

That’s not how it happened.
I would never.
You’re overreacting.
Why is this a big deal?
It’s in the past— let it go.
Why do you hate me?
I sacrificed so much for you.
You know I love you.
It didn’t hurt that bad.
Why are you always so dramatic?
You’re exaggerating.
Christina said there was nothing
to forgive. Why can’t you move on?
You’re just doing this for attention.
I don’t remember saying that.
You know I love you.
That never happened.
You’re lying.
I’m hurt you would even say that.
Nobody needs to know our business.
Look what you made me do.
No one will love you like I do.
You make it hard to love you.
You know I love you.
How could anyone else put up with you?
Why can’t you let anything go?
It’s your fault.
Look what you’ve done now.
You can’t do anything right.
You’re lucky I’m here.
You’re lucky I love you.
You know I love you.
You’re lying.
You’re lying.
You’re lying.

It’s hard to care
when sleep is intoxicating.
The pull toward oblivion
is a thick velvet
rope around my neck.
Bank rope strangling
me into complacency
and obedience.
I only want.
I want and I want and I
want. Chitinous clatter
blocks my face from the sun.
I wear a helmet
of shell and tar.
Keep me hidden.

What I mean is that it’s okay
to say love is not a platitude.
Because we are deeper and larger
than what we’ve learned. No more platitudes for me. Surgically remove
my ego. Let it all go,
partially deflated latex balloons
too weak to fly away. It’s okay
to start small. It’s okay
to settle for what you can get
until you can reach your height.

Is it suitable to say
I’ve been here before?
The fur covered sheets line
the same human envelope
I was shipped in. Where will I
be forwarded next? Tumble dry me
with first editions by tossing
me in and not dragging me out until
I’m no kinder to this language
than I ever was. Carol Ann
would be proud and disgusted.

And now we come to it. We come
to the source of it all, and I
haven’t mentioned you once. How is that?
Is it progress, or is this back- sliding?
Do I want you to tell me I’m worthy?
Perhaps I still do. You lurk in
cheesecloth dark, a humpback skull
in a budget apartment clinging to the ceiling
unable to help your size. Those forests are still
there— in Cherokee, in Gatlingburg, in
Sonoma, on Hunting Island. The turtle shell
cannot hold a wider circle. Come east.
Follow the Greenway down and down.
Wear your Best Shoes. Bring your hair.
I marry in November. Come home to me.
I’m no longer your home. Give me away and dance.

Past walks Scott Peeples,
Professor or artist smartly
dressed in corduroy cream
pants, grey on grey grid
button down. Fingers grip
Essential Dylan and a glittery
black capo. A nod to Ashley Harmon,
no, Bryson, maiden and maiden and
matron. A copy of To Kill a Mockingbird,
shattered spine, August and Everything
After. Baton passed to Lisa Rudd,
small frame ruddy cheeks,
Izzy Willy Nilly and a
monogrammed Tervis. Severe. A look
is left for her, for Carol Ann,
for Carol Ann who needs no surname.
Carol Ann with the yoga mat. Carol Ann
with the children. Carol Ann
in the pastry shop with Elizabeth
Bishop handing off Stripe and Yellow and hope.

Never let a blind man
tell you he can’t see
what must be seen.
The treasure you seek
doesn’t deserve you.
Can you love me?
This infernal fertile
marsh hovers in my mind.
Fade and fade and
establish subservience.
A puff of light, and I’ll
be gone. Will you
love me then?