08: October 2015 #03 - Coming to Terms
Authored by Stephanie Falkowski
Coming to Terms
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.