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Battle
by Sarah Frances Moran No one cares that you woke up this morning, snotty nosed and puffy –eyed got in the shower before using the bathroom to save time, and decided that today was the day you’d write the most Epic – Poem – Ever. They don’t care about that stifled genius or about how you’ve received 52 rejection letters to date. What they do care about, is the meat of you. What’s deep down in your guts? What makes them churn and what makes them ache? What makes you so alive? Why do you sit at the bottom of the tub and just cry sometimes? What pain racks your body so violently that sobs come out of you like a siren? Where the dogs in the neighbor’s yard start howling like wolves, because, they. definitely. understand. They want you split opened and splayed on the cutting board, dissected and then resurrected by passion. What kind of passion? They want you microscoped in metaphor. Crawling through the trenches of the war inside yourself you’re trying so desperately hard to bring to an end. And every time you hit your knees and elbows and drag yourself through that muck… what is it you’re searching for? running from? or towards? When you hit the end of it, are you appeased? Are you covered all up in it? In the mud and in the stench of the things they want you to reveal. Fuck the shower and the thoughts of should I Fuck your fears. Display it. Show them the way the scalding water reddens your skin. How you watch it as your mind ponders why you get so sad. How you play this game of figuring it all out before the water turns cold and how it always, always turns too cold too fast. Explain that you haven’t figured it out so far. That before you come to that resolution the water is cold, your skin is cold, your fingers are wrinkled and pruning and you’re just sitting there naked and freezing. Tell them that you get up anyway, And seize the day. You write the poems. You redraft yourself, every day for this battle. |
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