Silver Linings

I love words but stopped reading
two years ago when my eyes stopped
finding joy in it. Late nights by a hallway’s glow
after family went to bed or in college or
at any time in my life at any time of day

are now memories included in The Life I Had, which truth be told
is comprised of troubled working parts I abandon with great relief.

I once had a favorite book:
while it for so long encompassed the whole of me I no longer know
that it could anymore or which new story might. To simply listen
still robs the grit of lines embossed into a page; their shape
and span and ink and even whether there was a serif made
the personality of each letter as they appeared
on a stage with curtains scalloped in the center.

I love painting but my vision burns the edges or middle off
details in the whole when I stand back to scrutinize. I cannot trust
my hands with the curves of a body or especially the fine grout in an eyelid.
I love walking but every proper or misstep fires from groin through thighs and
I love sleeping but do so now best in smaller increments during certain times and
I love swallowing and I love having an even pulse and I love
thinking outside the fog of frayed axons and I love
remembering and I love
I love I love
silver linings. I love knowing
why it is
I have become so very, very good at falling.


poetry-magnetic-piecesI haven’t written a poem in a decade, but I used to do it all the time. I didn’t stop until getting mired in the symptoms of MS without knowing I had MS and lost in a relationship that ended up more abusive than not. Life got in the way of most things for a very long while. In the last little bit, this came blarghing out. I am posting it here only after (more or less) anonymously putting it on a poetry BB for feedback; I got better feedback than anticipated, and became less embarrassed. I want to keep doing this.

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