The Poetry Marathon

My closet is full of memories through out my life,
and some of my dad’s.
He didn’t want to believe his stuff had to be sold
so I hold the last of it for him.
At the assisted living, he doesn’t have a closet,
just a wardrobe.
I haven’t spoken to him for a while.
During our last phone call, he was in attack mode.
I had to step away.

In one of the boxes is my Girl Scout vests.
I could create a pillow.
In another is stories me and my cousin wrote for our grandma as kids.
Empty boxes take up the most space;
waiting for my next chapter to be unveiled.

I am a giant square eyeball.
I show you what you want to see.
Sometimes what you don’t.
I see you.
There are nights you stay up too late,
the night owl in you never quite going away-
other times you fall asleep in your chair.
Your cats cuddle with you a lot, my favorite part.
They like to run around and sleep in random places and play.
You always have Christmas lights plugged in.
Your Christmas trees are never taken down.
I scold myself for judging.
I’m here for your comfort, your distraction from your busy mind.
And yet, is there more for me?
Could I be moved into a new house with a new family to watch over?
Maybe they would have a dog?
How about to a movie theater where I would see different people all at once and fullfill their purpose every time?
I can only dream.
Meanwhile, please clean my stand.

A gentle touch,
something small like
a belief in you,
words used genuinely to build you
and comfort you.
Compassion wrapped in a gift,
warmth you can feel without standing close;
a promise that you matter
is love.

She ate cinnamon on her toast like every morning.
Her grandma had her tea and her arm had a tremor as she poured it.
Their dog licked her elbow and the girl gave him a small piece.
Her grandma glared disapprovingly.
She hurriedly finished and left.
The sun is high in the sky, brightening the beautiful bayou.
Her grandma yelled out the door to take her jacket,
but she didn’t hear.
Running through the woods with her dog at her heels,
she sings and laughs as he picks up a stick to bring along.
The treehouse her father built her is up ahead.
Shhh, she tells her dog. They walk quietly up the ladder and sit near
the window.
Elk and deer are grazing, so unaware of their beauty.
She sighs in happiness.
They stay until sunset and return home, shivering in the cool wind.
Later, her grandma puts a bucket next to her bed,
giving her a knowing look.
Before the sun rises, the girl is coughing so hard, her dinner comes up.
Her dog’s ears flatten with worry.
She can hear her father’s car enter the carport and the lightbulb in the hallway
flashes on.
He has come home to her!
With gifts, she hopes.

He comes to tuck her in as he always does and kisses her temple. 

Tomorrow. He pokes her nose, anticipating her question. 

She is still smiling after she falls asleep. 

Tomorrow. 

What will I do without the weight of you now?

I let out what I had been holding in;
screams, secrets, shame, fear.
If the police take you away, it wont affect me.
You are out of my life for good.
I live as a free woman.
I can take care of my cats without feeling bad.
With you, I was broken and shut down.
Without you, I have opened up like a flower,
taking in the sun.

The future is aching for me.

Talia meets her lover on Sundays at the swing,
on the edge of the sunflower field.
The busybodies would be in church,
Their families out of sight, out of mind.
Her girl puts a sunflower in her black wavy hair and smiles.
They sit on the swing together, Talia on her lap,
their lips meeting as they smile.
They hold each other as they swing back and forth.
No words are needed,
until sunset when its time to go.
“When can we tell?” Talia’s girl Lavender asks, the wind carrying her blonde hair.
“Soon.” Talia answers, gathering her hands to her lips.
The swing dances with the sunflowers in the wind
as the lovers walk their separate ways.

At the edge of the earth,
notebooks are piled high like cliffs.
I take one out and a new one appears.
The pages are full of words in another language.
I take another and its drawings of animals from front page to back.
Another, letters from a widow.
I take my journal of healing poems from my backpack
And slide it on top of the widow’s.
I left my mark and will return again another day.

Moving is upon her.
A new chapter in her life is on the horizon;
to live near her family and friends.

She was isolated for so long by her ex
and thought she deserved to be alone.
There are memories filled with lies, gaslighting and fear;
Journals of his secrets he told her not to write.
He used her mental illness against her.
She was his perfect victim.

And now she belongs to herself.

They walk through life holding hands,
making each other laugh,
building each other up,
catching each other as they fall;
writing notes for the other to find.
They live a cliché.
And wouldn’t change it for the world.
She writes romance novels, inspired by her own.
He builds houses, his foundations based on theirs.
She won’t give up on him.
He won’t let go when her depression comes back.

“It’s the dream,” the writer says as she sets down her pen.

Silence hugs the room
as she waits for words to fill the empty page.
People around the world are doing the same
in their homes.
We are not giving up.
We are going strong.
Snacks piled next to us.
Drinks at the ready.
Typing fills her ears.
She is like coffee being poured into a cup.
Warmth consumes her as words appear.