The Poetry Marathon

I don’t really know who I am.
I take writing classes and I seem to fit in.
I carry my trauma wherever I go.
I am in another relationship, afraid to be alone.
We love each other within a few months.
I have lost myself, what little pieces I had,
pleasing him.
I wish I knew that I’m not bad.

This is how she found us,

the past draped about us like a cloak.*

Before her discovery,

memories crackled like the fire.

Our cats swirling around our legs like smoke.

My mind is racing.

Will we leave together?

Or find that there is nothing left of our marriage?

I have so much to say.

You reach for my hand.

I open my mouth.

*after Diana Khoi Nguyen

Her face opened up like a gift when she smiled.

Music came out of her mouth when something was funny enough.

Still, she’d cover her face as she did so.

As if she was insecure or trying to hold herself back.

And he wanted her to know that she did not need to hide herself or anything about her.

He wanted her to be completely herself and let the music play.

For she is his melody.

And he is her comedian.

My mind is awake while the world is asleep.

I watch the sun set and the sky darken.

My mood set with it.

Yesterday I was strong.

Today I am tired.

I’ve been through so much and I’m not even that old.

Poems struggle to be written and I keep trying.

I take my hope out of the box and let it shine.

Falling into depression;

my mind won’t shut off,

the hate won’t stop.

I am locked in my dark prison again.

Crying out with no sound.

My brain is squishy.

Words aren’t coming to me.

I’ve lost my talent.

I feel abandoned and the empty feeling only grows.

Where are you, my muse?

I call out again and again until my voice is hoarse.

Come home and awaken my soul.

His black face is relaxed.

His long body taking up almost the whole ottoman.

His soft snores make me smile.

His fur is growing back after his last hair cut.

A sleeping cat is a happy cat.

Almost 11 years old, he still plays and cuddles.

He makes my day everyday.

Dear you,

You still write and I am so proud.

The quarters I gave you for every story paid off.

I have missed you and your cousins.

It’s been too long.

I’m sorry I couldn’t eat well so I could watch you grow into a young woman.

But my love lives on in every piece you write.

Don’t ever give up.

Love,

Grandma

Walking through the park with her satchel across her breasts; she stops.

A sunflower touches her nose and she breathes it in and closes her eyes.

Everyday she takes this walk to visit the flowers and clear her head.

Back at home she will add cheddar cheese to her Chilli, fill her wine glass to the brim and watch the oak trees dance in her yard.

Being divorced has been healing.

She is free to do whatever her heart desires.

For now, she just enjoys the space.

And fills herself with love.

Modestly dressed,

she only dreams of wearing less.

Her husband works and controls the money.

And she stays home and cooks and raises the children.

Her days are the same.

At dances, she looks at other women with longing.

Her youngest son beams up at her and her daughter takes her hand, bringing her back to the present.

Someday woman will have a voice and more rights.

Someday.