Poetry Report: End of the Year

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“lead gardens
grow in your joints”

This poem is for everyone who doesn't make the news. Who keeps going despite every reason not to.

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In the Grip


Deep in the anonymous center
every need in the world
grabs you from the edges,

leaves red marks
along the skin,
drys out the mouth,
pops the pores open,
the stomachs' contents
press to the sides,

hair pulls out,
teeth chip,
ribs crack and fold
and move tectonic,
mountains rise

from your back
and lead gardens
grow in your joints
as you stand
to crawl.

Another morning
and you might die
from this pain.

Breath grapefruits
in your garbage can lungs.

Wait.
Hold.

Focus on the breath.
You can still breath.
You can still do this.

Plates grind past,
turn rock to dust.

Be patient,
there is even
a waiting room
for death.

Somehow no one
calls your name
and curtains finally unfold
from a window's wet breath
as a rain on the face
pours a saving cold
along the veins' skin.

You breath out,
stand
and another day
in the tightening
anonymous
begins.

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