The Poetry Marathon

more to the point all
i needed to say is that
you occur to me

more time would be nice
but less is also sexy
it fuels the longing

so everyone wrote
on my facebook page but you
who ignores birthdays

more than you are now
lives strong that old memory
that i should release

so my grandmother did not wear moccasins.

but if she did i can imagine her dragging her toes each step
grinding stride
toe to heel, destroying them emery board style and slow as she walked from the bus stop home
(but definitely more toe
like vowels sung in an opera
holding place for the pain)
that sneaky pain
wearing out her history
tiny holes in bigger holes
wearing in a path made a million times before

buses ain’t no place for squaws.
even in penny loafers.

so you opened the door
your front door
busy street
busy park
busy night
you opened your front door
wearing nothing but a hockey jersey.
and maybe your heart on your sleeve.
and maybe your glasses.

but maybe not.

more cramping
more discharge
more eggwhitey
suddenly
and
than before
more bleeding
more living up in my shoulders and less in my core
more living up in my head and less in
me
less me

more fluid
more swabs
more charting
more medical
more stress
more anxiety
more sadness
more alarms
more frantic
more bodies
more warmth
despite the cold
more light
no light
more pain
more pain

more pain

less baby

no baby.
more pain

more than this.
luscious words rolling out between the crackle and pop on a night where everything seemed hard. frozen. brittle. and sudden.
is this okay.
it is more than okay.
it is soul thawing.

more is elusive at times
impossible.

catching firsts is that more.

keen
blinding
light(e)ning strands punching through time
fighting for space

the wonder

fading faster than the mundane arrives.
(oh, but it arrives)

leaving space. a gap.

what comes after a first and before a last.
the awakening of minutiae
keep track (how to keep track)
count (count by what)
don’t lose your place (do i have a place to lose)
wait, wait, wait.

wait more.

before eyes open
before breath cleared

(what is that before)

living a moment with a camera in hand.
in anticipation.

a camera moment.
anticipation of a camera moment.

is all.

what is it if you miss a first

a last

a more.

more to the sky than the clouds and the blue
(the blues are always where she though the universe began and ended)

it wasn’t the vast
or the space
or the air
that rose and fell and followed women of some certain type

you know.

those women

those women who create air
ever moving places of want
passing currents
strong and singleminded.

who passed her and created air
airs
those women of airs
the promise of lingering a(he)irs.

unlike her mother.
and very unlike the blues.

(beware the undertow)

(but what is that scent. you smell so good. so warm. so familiar.)

the promise of rain, on stone?
on green?
(on women?)
that air.
that very thick air.
that slow, that lush.

that feel.
that promise of a feel.

(that never comes. or)

reminiscent of all that came slowly (reluctantly) before she was six.

and left so quickly once turned.

ice cream.
conclusions.
breath.
more.