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Actually writing again.


I’ve got smatterings in notepad, but I’m WRITING poetry again.

Haven’t really sat down and wrestled with meter, but it feels so good to “scribble” out what bounces around in my head during classes and the walks in between classes and at dinner and on the way to sleeping.

Here’s a piece I’m still working on, with the working title of “Cornea”

because I stared at the sun
or klieg lights or something as a child
cobwebs stretch across my cornea
dead cells dancing against white walls, white pages,
refusing to be examined or absent

I was five,
swimming in the plastic pool in the backyard
with its smooth blue bottom
I saw them, reached out
for what looked like the highways printed on the map
Dad spread across the steering wheel while he drove
the van on cross country treks to the grandparents’–
Squirming lines with highway shields against the bright blue
my eyes open under the water, my fingers waving at what moved away
the more I tried to look.
This was mystical, unexplainable to me
why they would appear only at the bottom of the pool
Except maybe I had looked at maps too much
without knowing I would remember them as if burnt to my retina,
my brain resorting to mapping the sea floor of the backyard.

Mystery, not dead cells,
Not exhausted pixels of my optical scanning.

I suppose I could have my eyes scraped clean
(awful thought!)
but take comfort in this:
no one will see the world
the way I see it–
riddled with flitting gray squiggles,
dust motes, planks, of vision.

Still needs work. But that’s okay. Editing and revising is the dark night of the soul for poets, but eventually we emerge into the morning light with a finished piece.

Some nights are just longer than others.

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