Day 17 – Sick Day

There is nothing that a doctor
could find wrong with me-

so I cannot get a note.
But I’m staying home
anyway.

I’ve got a fever of the mind
I can’t prove,
yet I feel

heavy,
collapsed from the inside,
tense
from holding steady
too long.

There is a seed of grief
I have to tend to
before it grows big,

a sadness which wonders
at all the scuttling,
all the getting by.

“Am I getting lost?”

I know this road too well,
I know the cost,
I know the cure,

and today I’m calling out
to fix myself.

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Year 2: Day 71 – Post-It Note

I dream sometimes of a post-it note:
“Hey girl. I’m sorry. You win.”

And then I write, “Oh hey.
Didn’t even notice you’re still alive.
I’m sorry, too. We both win.”

And I tear it up in a hundred bits
and I blow it outta town.

OR I send it with a bluebird
straight to you
and both our hearts grow
three sizes that day.

But hey, come on,
I said it was a dream.
Hearts grow around the holes

and they can grow three sizes anyway
just accepting the way things are.

Day 213 – Because Talking To Myself Would Be Crazy

Sometimes you write really mean notes to me
but I never see you.
That makes sense.

Most of the time they’re full of ranting about
how I wasn’t a good friend.
That makes sense.

Most of those times I sit down to write you back,
try to find the words to make it right,
but I usually wake up before that
and say “forget about that,
he wasn’t no saint, neither.”

But the day unfolds timidly.

It brings distractions, though,
and the dreams, if they come,
are sporadic and light
and full of thanking my child’s teachers
for all the hard work they do.

(That always earns a smirk
’cause I don’t have any kids
and it’s amusing to be so obvious)

But you had to get in one last note
before it could be done, and I know
this was the last one
because you didn’t write it.

A note of forgiveness this time
to say “you did what you could,
now forget about it-
he wasn’t no saint, neither.”

And I know it’s the last one
because he didn’t write it.
That makes total sense.