The Holidays

  

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(author’s note: I wrote this right before I binged a whole bottle of wine. Cry for help, perhaps?)

This moves.
It starts in the scalp
slowly sinking to the throat
then the hands.

And no one gives a shit.
No one cares.

You won’t ask them to understand.
You are the pillar
don’t show your cracks.
Fill them in with whatever you can get your hands on
When every morning is an epic journey
from your bed to the kitchen
the son still needs breakfast.
You still need to be mother
in the midst of the war inside of you.

The warmness that trickles to your toes
until every moment is painful
until destruction is necessary
a hunger you can’t subside

no one cares.

this is what everyone does
you are nothing special
every dusk is a blessing
but you don’t get a medal
no trophy
for making it through another day.

30/30

Prompt: Structure a poem or prose writing according to city streets, miles, walks, drives.

Go from the main library.
Walk down Newell
Passed the houses with the perfect lawns
And the glossy cars.
Turn on Hamilton. Watch how the building shift from modest
To mansion.
One direction will lead you
To lights and industry
To Downtown
To University
And the other direction
Will lead you
Home.

You have walked this path
More times than you can count
Memorized the cracks in the sidewalk
To guide you
Back to the place
That is embedded in
Your bones
But this will
Be the last time
You walk here
The last time you
Retrace your steps
After today
That house will just be
The walls of your childhood
The address on Ivy Lane
The last stop
Before the 101