How can you look at
and talk to your body,
soft and round,
the way that you do?
Even the earth
gets so jealous of the moon
and all her curvatures
that it will come between
her and the sun
just to eclipse her beauty.
Jill Calahan
novamarie
2020 is my first year participating in the marathon. I started writing when I was pretty young. Over 20 years ago. It saved me during some dark times in my life. I stopped writing for a really long time. But in the last couple years or so, I've gotten back into it. I've missed it. It feels like coming home. You can check out my work on Instagram novamarie_poetry
Hour 14 (2022)
I saw a spider
crawl out from a hole
next to your headstone.
It was probably venomous.
It was probably you.
Hour 13 (2022)
Free write
Your diagnosis
was a knife
to my heart.
But watching
as you gave up
was the twist.
Hour 12 (2022)
Dear six of nine,
How dare you.
How dare you call
yourselves justices
when you’re nothing more
than souless, spineless, jesters.
How dare you.
How dare you.
How fucking dare you.
I hope one day
you feel this wrath.
And I hope it fucking burns.
Hour 11 (2022)
A swallowed smile.
A tickle in my throat.
A hiccup in my chest.
A trampoline in my belly.
All the ways
you make me feel silly
and young
and alive.
Hour 10 (2022)
Free write
Keep your head up, darling.
You cannot see the stars
while looking at your feet.
Hour 9 (2022)
Off prompt/free write
How cruel is it
that ashes are all
I have left of you
to hold on to.
And no matter my grip
you will still slip
right through my fingers.
Hour 8 (2022)
I bought oranges for the end of the world
$5.99 a bag, what a steal!
Even the threat of death and nothingness
won’t wipe the thrift from my bones.
Capitalism tastes like
a citrus apocalypse on the tongue.
Burning in dollar bill paper cuts.
We thirst for what little brightness
is hiding on the horizon
and clawing at the peel to find it.
I bought oranges for the end of the world
A citrus apocalypse on the tongue
The explosion hits like a bomb,
vapors sting my welling eyes.
Turns out my bag of oranges
were onions this whole time.
Hour 7 (2022)
I’ll love you
until all color
fades from our pictures.
Until this bench
rots from beneath us.
Until the earth and sky
have no meaning.
I’ll love you
until the end
of our memories
and beyond.
Hour 5 (2022)
I crave a day
without pavement.
Basking in the space
between sunflowers
and oak trees.
A place where I can rest
and feel holy in the sunshine.
Knitting my body and mind
back together again.
Where grass tickles my feet
and my worries blow away
on laughter in the wind.