I feel like such a poetry month, and blogging failure, right at this second. I was so pumped about moving and having this place of my own to write tons, but moving, itself, nesting, even decorating becomes like a full time job. I mean this isn't just a temporary abode, for now, it's home.
I am still plowing through the Bell Jar, well, puttering through, and I imagine in my next post, I'll be sharing something along the lines of what I would have wanted to write a paper about if I were reading this book in high school or college: foiling/paralleling the TB clinic with the electroshock clinic, and other fun musings.
For now, not because I think it's any good, but I'm posting a poem I wrote yesterday while at work, just to show that my brain still resides outside of its box, even when I'm "on the clock" with the kids.
days to dust
Days of days I dust minutes for
new fingerprints, the labyrinths
that only decode in forensic
violence or to the reader of not
just the palms, but she counts
your tips like planets orbiting
round you like moons, inescapable
they cling, drumming fingernails
across the knee tops, impatient
they wind round bones and some
ligaments, muscle dreams and
strings. Magnets and gravity,
powerless to reverse their
attachments to you - all of
their fields cannot grow any cure
for this disease. My fingers
bleed off my hands like wind
chimes float on lifeless days hot
strung up pink skinned to my
shoulders again. Everyday I dust:
they only change directions.
by Angie T. Jeffreys 2012