written 2015
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I must confess to you, my dear,
There’s something about the night
And the feeling of paper beneath ink
That draws out confessions like a canvas to the painter
I must confess to you, dear,
Official diagnosis: Anxiety and Depression
In Kindergarten terms, that means
My brain won’t shut off
And sometimes I can’t remember
How to be happy
It means that when I get home at night
Power On.
Channel One: A little girl plays outside, kickball, with her neighbors.
They laugh and run.
The sky starts to get dark,
Curfew.
She wants to finish the round; it’s her turn to kick.
Poetry floats from their mouth
like dragon smoke in December.
Happiness relaxes on their cheeks
like a glittered recliner and
the sound of their laugh gets caught in my hair.
Every night I hear it call to mefrom across the room,the tintinnabulation of its twin tines
enticing me to indulge; threatening,
promising to keep its hold on me forever.
