The Poetry Marathon

I want to write a poem

About how I feel

But it’s hard to explain

How hard it is

To be autistic and at the same time

Somewhat normal

And still be bisexual

Along with nonbinary

Add in being a birthmother

And all the things that come with

Mental health problems

It is difficult to say this to anyone

Especially myself

I climb the shelves

jump the study rooms

and cut my way

through piles of books

I plumb the depths

of Google searches

for bits of lost info

and hidden treasure

I face the questions

that puzzle the will

of the most knowledgeable

mystics and prophets

I dig through the papers

of researchers long gone

to find the answer

we’re all looking for

I liked closets

I could hide away where no one would see me

safe inside a small space

my mind could fly far away

Then I was fine with closets

They kept me safe

my secrets locked away inside

only a few picking the lock or being allowed to peek inside

I started to hate closets

when people started to die in them

I knew it had happened all along

but now people I knew

I have become a master of my own closet

For some the door is wide open

Others, only see the light 

around the cracks

I am now understanding of closets

Sometimes they protect

sometimes they confine

and sometimes they are the safest place in the world

Slip sliding over the texture

my fingers dive into

a pile of river smooth stones

shivers running through me

as their surface soothes me

no sharp edges to disturb

my sensitive nerves

closing my eyes

I feel calm

The desire to launch into a club hit

is almost unbearable

Thinking of bass hits

and flashing lights

and muscles on display

Followed quickly by

two men bobbing their heads in time

making fools of themselves

while others laugh

In this mad dash to the end

this will be the rhythm that keeps my brain going

Club music, flashing lights, dancing bodies

Early morning

loading up buckets in the carport

moths bang against the lightbulb above

I cling to the sleeve of his jacket

the tremor from the engine makes me shake

as we slip out onto the bayou

Staying at his elbow

the mist makes this place look

like a fairy land

Hiding all the monsters

freaks, trolls, and goblins

that every good swamp provides

I’m already tired of funeral songs

Only a few decades under my belt

and yet I feel like I’ve seen too many funerals

A few for the old

but too many for the young

and those near to me I wish I could hold tight

But bottles still spill out

along with the blood and the soul

of those I have known for at least two liftetimes

Wait for me

at the top of the old stairs

where the creaks are the loudest

and splinters catch your nightgown

as you walk up to bed

By the old water pump

wait for me

to talk of fairies and nymphs

that play in the creek bed

known only to you

On the old back porch

where the old men waste time

wait for me

as the sunsets

and the men have gone to dinner

In the middle of the strawberry rows

when the heat begins grow

on your straight tan back

wait for me

to kiss your toes

Deep in the woods

at the edge of the property

cool even in the heat of the day

and dim enough to hide our secrets away

wait for me

Curiosity has me

as my fingers curl around

the soft rounded edge

at the end of the world

Pulling myself forward

on my belly

much like a kid

spying on their parents

I look down to the black stars

lean further and see more stars

even further and see webbed feet

swimming through the inky black

Ancient leathery skin folds and stretches

as a face older than time

turns its eyes to me

an unimportant speck in the cosmos

We walked by a statue

every day

for a hundred days

never knowing what lay inside

We walked over a bridge

every day

for two hundred days

never knowing what lay beneath

We walked under a tree

every day

for three hundred days

never knowing what it had seen

Eyes in the statue never moving

Weapon in the water never stirring

Tree in the grass never telling

How one night a girl died