Poem: In the Middle of the Journey of Our Life, I Came to Myself in a Dark Wood

In the Middle of the Journey of Our Life, I Came to Myself in a Dark Wood

Wondering if alcoholism is all that bad,

wondering about mothers who kill themselves

in the middle of

babies in cars and clothes on lines,

and polyester patio-furniture and plastic poppies,

pressed thumbs in eye sockets, hollowed by

the journey,

stars like glints of blades threaten fall—

Did I say—I meant

my life, and your life, separately,

as a, well, as a phrase—

this is no Trinity;

call me from La Florenza, you dog,

how am I supposed to write with you

hanging in my eyes like a garland of the roses

of our life?—

tremulous, a violinist’s left hand;

Wan, daring worry lines, clotheslines, coke lines—

here, in the woods, where

I came to—

which is a verb and particle

and thus grammatically acceptable,

viz a viz, a phrasal verb—

follow lines, nines, fines…brine

of two olives on a Sunday afternoon,

fall in love with cataracts

and cottony deafness and lie in

a lie, mutually, marriage

of sadism and masochism, respectively,

chew gold, one, two

rings, silver-lined—find booming industry

and dead tobacco companies;

I’d kill for a lone Marlboro Red

but they send me spinning—I mean it—

vertiginous, orange bloodiness of dawn within


hamstrings my eustachian tubes,

untethered umbilical cords,

send me to synthetic vinyl flooring

in a dark wood

shade without so much as a wink

or a drink—

which brings us back to my question,

my dear B: why is it all that bad?

Why? Is it all that bad?

By Ella

I am an undergraduate junior studying creative writing. I am interested in short fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction and professional writing.

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