This week, I flew to LA, read some poems about being a sellout, came back to Mexico City, decided I miss having hobbies. Maybe I will get into comic books. Butterfly pinning. Metal smithing. All of the above.
I wrote this poem from a Brooklyn Poets prompts on writing the “truth.” The title is from a series from Good Girl and Other Yearnings. Maybe it’s a series I’ll never stop writing.
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IT'S NOT CONFESSIONAL POETRY IF I'M NEVER HONEST IV I hid all four corners of the puzzle. I didn’t want it to end— you stretched over the breathy and broken Van Gogh sky, blue and humming like another sky. You are erotically precise. I am in love and cannot be blamed. I am waiting for my mother to pass. If there’s a god she’ll go easy before my father. A light gone out. Melting ice birthing oceans. But of course there is no god, there is no Father. The Earth spins. The moon is photographed. Most people never wake up. I am not most people. My eyes are dying to roll back. I am petty and jealous. I can’t wear red. I trample. My shiny obsidian soul is scuffed with little streaks, frozen rivers. I’ll have what everyone is having, even the pain.
April is National Poetry Writing Month, so we’re sharing poems in the comments, doing our usual roundtable, and having a virtual open mic.
Below, on the other side of the paywall, is the link to register for the monthly roundtable workshop, where we workshop 4 poems from 4 subscribers. This is tomorrow, April 12th at 2pm EST. Join us!
You can also register below for the virtual open mic on April 26th at 2pm EST.
And share a poem from your week in the comments. What are you working on? What’s new? I can’t wait to read it.
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