Poem #741 – to my future child

we’re gonna eat green beans and gummy bears
splash in the watery mud after a rain
bundle up for a 20 hour drive to Alaska

I’m gonna tell you how electricity works
the reasons why a budget is necessary
the purpose of air bags and brakes

you’re gonna tell me why you like purple
about the ghost you saw in the middle of the night
how a kid in your class is always talking

we’re gonna giggle while we climb the tree in the yard
argue about the choice of your sock colors
scream as the roller coaster drops

I’m gonna learn how to be patient when you don’t understand
that children are much messier than I thought
why “skinny jeans are so last generation”

you’re gonna learn how to be patient when I don’t understand
when to speak up about what you need
that most things aren’t the end of the world

we’re gonna squeeze each other until someone shouts “uncle”
be equally terrified as you learn to drive
love each other

Poem in Invisible Ink

The words are aching to explode from my chest. Instead, they leak in invisible ink. I want to read them, but I can’t see them, even with glasses.

I write this while I sit on a full-sized bed in a small room with nearly thirty other beings. The only way I survive is focus, focus on other things. I am a master of focus. Focus. Focus. Focus.

But that focus can create this never-ending loop in my brain. An anxiety loop worsening until my bones are about to shatter from the shaking. More power than a jack hammer. More oscillation than a “back massager.” More danger than an earthquake.

I’M LIABLE TO EXPLODE!

… except quietly. Softly. No one will notice that my heart seized up in the frenzy. No one will notice as I fall to the ground.

I am as invisible as the words I cannot put to paper. I am a writer who cannot write. I am a poet who barely uses adverbs.

Even this is short, though I can feel the rhythm of those superfluous words in my chest. They waltz. They are beautiful, I am aware. But I can’t see them.