Categories
Poetry

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

myself

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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