Skip to content

Groundhog Day

Grad Student. Poet in progress, occasional cook, part time procrastinator, full time daughter, granddaughter and friend.
As I pass into school property the crossing guard is asleep in her car,
it is still dark.
I take note of the names I speak outloud to myself at night to make sense of things.
One name is a rollercoaster, three names are paradiddles, one name I still cannot say.
All induce nausea.
No, I cannot think about that now.
I let the electric toothbrush hit and buzz on my molars,
it distracts me for a moment.
I also force my hands under hot water
in my metal sink for too long,
skip a lotion and watch my knuckles bleed on my sheets when I clench a fist in the night.
Let myself scald in the shower,
making me both the crab fighting a moot point in a brass pot
and the crabber who has put me there.

O, heat, engulf me.

I gave names to each person running through me, confused names, odd ones,
that made sense to only me,
I place their names in my mouth and wool them around to feel them clack like rock candy.
Sweet, sharp.

Truth, I never named myself.
I would say I never think about myself but that's not true,
if you consider the
hot water and blood.
Truth, I consider myself often.
Truth, I have no name.
Truth, I face an infinite winter.
Salt smothers everything I own.
117

You might also like…

Poetry

Call It What You Will

Donald Ryan

The doctors, explaining the consent form, referred to him as an allergen. That's the only reason he could figure they prescribed Claritin. Well, technically they didn't prescribe Claritin, being ...  [+]
Poetry

My Father Was A Doctor

Juan Rosado

My father was a doctor. We never got the doctoring bug. He never spoke to us about medicine. Instead, he took us on road trips and taught us to play catch, even me. When we were little, he would read ...  [+]
Poetry