The Poetry Marathon

Let me lead you to forgive

and forget that summer

when we thought

we were invincible

and danger lingered

everywhere

by our bedroom door

through the kitchen

where we harshly wounded

our memories

and seriously undertook to

laugh and linger

on the good times had by all.

The edge of black takes over

the whole screen.

Nada—zip—nada mas.

The peel I leave behind is messy,

for those I leave behind.

Old books worn by my eager fingers:

proof that I was once there.

Clothes frayed at the seams:

the loose threads emphasizing the lack of meaning.

Some of my dead skin sitting in the dust

of my worn white windowsill.

I can’t choose coffee, black

or with cream and sugar.

I can’t even choose coffee.

Did I want it to end?…no——-even though

I was tired.  But, I didn’t have a choice.

This is just what is done, it just happens,

and I don’t feel a thing.  My feelings

belong to the memories of those I left behind.

My body will be donated to the air

in grey flakes and small bits

of ivory bone.

I’ll touch down on the emerald grass,

the brown aging roots of a tree.

That’s where my spirit will be.

That’s all that is left of me.

I’m not terribly important except the things that emerge around me are.  I have no simple way of telling anyone who I am so I just list the most important things I can think of:

My husband is a Cuban artist and we walk 4 to 5 miles every other day.

I am a cancer person, not sure if I’m a survivor yet.

I have two cats but don’t call me the cat lady.

I have a grandson and also a granddaughter on the way.  The mother doesn’t like me much.

I have written on and off for years, not just poetry.

Cigs were my best friends but obviously I cant smoke anymore.

Well that’s about it, not very exciting I know.