Art speaks in limitless ways
The way dancers flock to an open space
The way brushstrokes externalize a buried rage
The way a chef sprinkles rosemary and sage
The way a writer grips to the connection of a page
Or a stick
Grounded dirt or sand
I once wrote with my fingernail on the shakiness of my panicked palm
Bathroom stalls and park benches
Sometimes lipstick and a mirror appear heaven gifted
When my daughter died I scribbled inside my head
The litter of leftover thoughts
Still murmur like a distant rattling of mamas mixing pots
Beyond a perfect line, circle or square
Is my stream of penmanship
Combating the woo of normalness
I do my best work under the duress of craziness
I wrote on a notepad in a bathtub in a hotel room
They said my brother was dying
And I didn’t know what the fuck else to do
Punch a nurse or doctor?
The postman of premortem…
My tips ink it out harder
Sometimes I dance and scream
Shredding down the walls of my brain
Griefs found me like a ravaging bloodhound
Inside, all is not safe and sound
But I smile and wave and nod
I am a mother and a lover
I am a human spirit
I share grief with the infinity of others
“Let’s talk and sit around in a circle”
but sometimes I spin out!
My Shape… is nameless
A pale face bound by a galaxy of freckles
The overlapping and intersecting lines
The willpower of a lioness
There are no instructions for madness!
So I use the benefit of pen and paper
To be understood by myself
and none other.
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