this business of her nerves being older
than her bones. how it’s made her heart grow
wider in search of what it needs,
but can diminish the effect
of daffodils in spring.
how it’s left her wanting everything
to be a position she can sleep in.
but the poems can’t stop coming, won’t
let go. (actual writing, intermittent.)
there’s nowhere to put them
except swallow.
this caused the roof of the place
that houses her voice to cave in.
(the elocution of rain at the window
explains all she needs to say anyway.)
how she keeps writing the first draft
of a suicide note. even if she’s not
sure who it’s from. or where
to find an addressee.
plus, how long to preach
to one’s own choir? it’s unclear
the nature of the waiting (writing?)
period, when the hard part
starts or ends. if it ever.
and why she persists in wrangling
more distance between
surviving and thriving.
the forecast’s been set to overcast
since that forever of a childhood—
which forced her to understand
long before she developed gills.
like how much of a prison you can
hold in your eyes. how empty
the pews in church feel midweek.
plus how far away an east can seem
when waiting for a sun to rise.
most of all, why the Chinese word for
endurance
is the character of a knife
perched on top of a heart.