via a night kitchen
My loneliness is an efficient machine. It brings me many things.
And then I will confess everything with a pencil in my hand and a scrap of cheap paper on the table in front of me. This is how you do it, the books tell me. Beg all the words out onto a page.
The cheap paper has thin blue lines on it to show me where to put the words. The mechanical pencil in my hand, almost forgotten, is chewed, even though Sister Michaella promised a real eraser to any girl who didn’t chew the end of her pencil shut.
I beg myself and the words come, sometimes. They come so slowly that I am not sure if they are mine or someone else’s, those of a brighter girl who had her hand up before mine.
And this writing of words that comes with thinking about what I have or have not done is peaceful, more peaceful than the day I lost myself all the way into the words and tapped the rhythms of them out onto my desk until the whole room watched.
[crossposted to a night kitchen]
Just put up, fresh after midnight…
My friend Cathy has mentioned to me that my poems seem to be very well hidden on this blog. This was not my purpose. To fix the problem, I am giving them a new home on their very own blog: a night kitchen. The site gets its name from its very first post.
Thus, I post the poems there, and my usual nonsense here. Got that? Yup, good.