08: October 2015 #03 - Coming to Terms

Authored by Stephanie Falkowski

Coming to Terms

by Stephanie Falkowski

You don’t like my poetry
And you don’t like me
Even though the shit in front of
swab stuff off of tonsils
drive to every Subway in a ten mile radius
moments are vanquished into soot
In the chimney swept up with wire
Trickling down onto wet logs soaking up
Into nothing but dying wood.
 
You don’t need to like my poetry
And you don’t need to like me.
When I walked down our street that winter
I gazed at the little cottage for rent
The unfulfilled anorexic wanderlust in me tried
SO HARD to imagine
A room for the baby, a room for us, a room
I stood there in my gigantic Eskimo jacket
SO HARD to imagine
the rest of my life be given (up?) to the unborn, the alive.
I imagined. I saw. I felt.
A sigh of the easy way out.
 
E-Z Way is the beer joint in my hometown.
There’s not much there.
God, how did I escape?
Mental abuse and starvation
Bruises and blistered feet
Not knowing what I was doing when I stood by you
Every day. After you could see my abdominal line. The easy way.
 
You need to know easy
Is not how my timeline works.
When you finally left the house,
[the bees infested my bedroom and I was stealing bread and butter
Wanna-be alpha dog banging me
Subjecting myself to power-hungry Gods
Stomach releasing wrongly digested poison
Co-workers passing 10 dollar bills]
was when I started growing up.
 
Growing.
A week spent under the sheets
Out to the canopy of dogwood blossoms
Pass you on the concrete tile, smiling new lovers.
Up.
Separate rooms, sobs, screams.
Guilty cheaters. Amenders. Fixers.
 
You don’t have to get my poetry.
And you don’t have to get me.
I just want to see the red drip
From my upper thighs into the bowl
Brown discoloration on the wilted
White paper pale life
warm on my belly, breasts, and back.
Life, constantly contracting and expanding
Gushing in and out of us
Cellular cosmic connections
My heart won’t stop pounding
Because I’m fucking coming
now with another
(To terms.)
 
You don’t have my poetry.
And you don’t have me.
Free.
Will, I am free.
Prisoners released from our settling graves
Purposely prowling through the
orchestrated ambiance this is why I write
Art, love, beauty, mystery SO HARD
To seek away. A way.
Easy.