Rudderless
I’m sure many of us do this. When stuck, I write about not being able to write. And often have to remind myself the day’s goals aren’t “to-do’s”. They are promises.
Rudderless
When you’re not home,
I eat popcorn
out of an oily metal bowl in our bed.
Food upstairs is forbidden, you said.
Because of bugs.
I believe
a half-torn paper towel
will catch crumbs gone unnoticed
until I stand
and much has tumbled
down my shirt
into my cleavage,
and I check over the bedsheets and the floor.
There’s a naughty joy I feel
blanketed in the dark
watching shows of horror.
The ones you told me not to watch.
Because they make it into my dreams
and you have to hear about
how scared I was in my sleep.
When you’re not home,
an entire bottle of wine
gave me confidence.
Then, I cried to “Landslide.”
Twice.
I filled an online cart
with shoes I won’t wear
and looked up old
college roommates,
some dead.
When you’re not home,
to myself I’ll say,
“this is the silence you wish for.
It’s here. Do something that matters”
I’m crippled with choices,
not knowing where to start.
Walk, read, write, nap, snacks
the way I want it.
Even eat the red meat you can’t have.
Now you’re home,
dinner’s not ready,
wet laundry sits in the washer,
my skin smells of salt from not yet showering.
When you weren’t home,
I broke a promise to myself
and released a directionless arrow.
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