Oh Golly, poem-peeps. There is so much I need to shake off tonight.
This day was a hard one, mostly because of my decision to read into the deep hours last night and this morning. Whoops. Sometimes I do that. Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop Readin’
My dear D2 replaced me tonight. At her imaginary house, her “Pretty House” there were no mothers or additional sister or babies, until today. My hair-doed rival awaits me in the imagination of my youngest. That’s intense. Bedtime tonight an hour and half, because she got so clingy and big-eyed towards the end. As I sang her to sleep and she clutched on so tightly to my arms, I tried hard to believe that I was the real Mom, but how am I to know? After all, I don’t have a hair-do. And the Mom in the Pretty House always has a hair-do.
So given my bedtime, I have to get to poeming, for the first of the last four weeks of this year. I am so close to writing the whole year down. That’s a thing. I give myself that thing. Here:
Does It Ever Come Back
Do you ever remember how hard you believed when you were young? Do you ever remember that rush of straight chemicals that captured your brain when you where larval and wriggling? Maybe it was straight chemistry that led you straight to that man, maybe not. Maybe the molecules lined up in a straight and glittering path, and maybe the galaxy. Perhaps all the stars and particles, perhaps the rebirth that we all deserve, perhaps many universes and many hair-dos, perhaps the most ingenious peace. All of us pretend, so often, so often we deny the star stuff, and pretend the question. What do think of, when you think on the stars? What did anyone ever thing, except that it might be nice to taste them? Sometimes you might run barefoot and get a small worm taken nest. Sometimes you might doubt your Mother.
Happy Monday, peeps. A hormone poem? A teen poem, given the shit they have given me this week? Seems legit, people of the poem.