Posted by Thanks to Kate. G for sharing the following collection of her poems written about her experiences coping with chronic illness.
Bird
The bird only moves in spastic jolts
like an old stop motion animation,
he jitters
unless he is flying.
Writing the word down,
she couldn’t understand.
The pain,
chronic.
What an impossible
forever.
She watches the bird,
as her body lurches forward
from the pain
chronic
and
dizzying.
How could she learn to fly,
with the weight of that word
pushing against her spine?
Pink Bleeds Red
She cries out in anger
after years of pink repression,
softening her tongue
to coddle the precious ears
of those who called her shrill.
Muting herself with a silk scarf,
loosely disguised as an accessory
to her demure demeanour,
instead of a noose around her neck.
Her hot parched lungs are red
like her cheeks
after years
of running from him,
whom was promised to be
her saviour.
Pink bleeds red
staining the white cotton sheets
which swaddled her as a child.
She is a mess
but she is okay now.
There is no soap
for the sins he committed.
Pink bleeds red,
and that is her favourite colour.
A Matter of Healing
“It doesn’t matter.”
A hundred people may have it worse
but
should it matter?
Be a
rose red.
Soak in the rain.
Be a
book open
to the page where it happened.
Be a
candle lit.
Burn in the message.
You are allowed
to heal the harm.
He may say you should
drown.
Drown
out the voice.
It doesn’t matter.
Blisters
He looks to the black and white
newspaper people
to remind him
It could be worse.
Starving and pandering
to the leaky eyed mother
who nagged him to eat
by sharing the plight of the poor.
You could be starving.
His bones rub against his shirt,
his fingers numb.
No tea to soothe his blood,
he does not deserve it.
He is a ship frozen in the sea,
the wind could not be too bitter
for his blistered sails.
Salt
His eyes leak tears
of coffee and gin.
He’s afraid to peak
at his lovers fading grin.
His tortoise shell glasses
are smudged and blurry.
The fear like molasses,
He wishes it would hurry.
Asphyxiated
by uneasiness,
just give him an answer.
Does he crave
the neediness?
He’d rather romance her.
He’s now in space,
where the stars are
galaxies.
A love erased
by his wish for
finality.
One day he’ll look back,
not a pillar of salt.
He’ll take some prozac,
and say it’s not his fault.