It’s the first day of April, and my life is filled to the brink: this week, I’ve got an interview for a class, three papers, a ton of research to do, and work for my internship/work at the cafe. I’ve been telling myself that the reason I haven’t been producing art is because I don’t have time, but that’s an excuse that I can’t let myself use any longer. Poetry is what gets me through the hectic times, so I am forcefully going to participate in National Poetry Writing Month with my friend Caroline. We are going to write a poem a day, sometimes based off of prompts from the website, sometimes not.
Without further ado, here’s today’s effort, following this prompt:
WE NEVER TALK ABOUT
I know the lowlands.
I know the way they hold nothing
closer to the sky and they sing
words using the throats of the forgotten.
I know they like to lay you down.
They hold out their vowels and
they hold. They do not relinquish
unless asked politely, and still
but this isn’t about that. I can’t keep
going on about the things that I’ve let go.
This is about not there, about not-family,
about not-have-to, about the opposite of
where-I-came-from and who-I-was
has nothing to do with this but I still
talk about her over coffee and food I
used to hate is on my dinner plate.
I’ve grown to know white space because
it surrounds me and I am in it and
I am building it and critiquing it and I
did not come from it, specifically, but
it is not foreign to me. I am taken in by it.
How does it look on me? All of this? Loss of?