Uncomfortable

I’m a master
at the ancient art of making people feel…
uncomfortable.

No, I took no course
on how to make someone’s apology meter
go from absolute zero to “I’m-so-sorry-
I-didn’t-mean-to-say-that-You-must-think-
I’m-such-an-ass!” in fewer than 13 seconds.

I’m just a natural
at reaping sorries I didn’t plant or want or need or,
for that matter, understand. People (good people, fantastic people) say
they’re sorry for my baldness, for my missing breast, for my bruised nails, for how I’m being “forced to think about mortality” and “fear death”. And

their beliefs about me
(which have nothing to do with me)
get so loud in their heads
that they fail to hear
the words dancing out of my mouth: I love my sparkly scalp, I’m proud of the boob that gave her life for mine, my scarred nails are warriors fighting to stay alive, dying is part of living, I don’t fear Death (how else will I get to play chess with my Pratchett and cackle with my Grandmother again?).

I’m a master
at making some people feel…
uncomfortable (or freaking joyous),
if they just care to read me
(and see me) all the way to the end.

 

the wee notes…
– Marian said to the Toads swimming at the Imaginary Garden, “Here is just one word to inspire poems for this weekend: Sensation.” So, I went ahead and asked Sensation if she minded being represented by her sister, Feelings, and she told me, “Of course not, Lady M, go for it!” And I did.
– also linked to Poets United.

 

well, yes, chemo can get rather artistic
on the nails
*slightly-mad cackles and wild giggles*

 

Rekindling

She never sleeps, my Muse. But sometimes, through the frost and rough of winter, she pretends to volcano—keeping her fieriness deep and bubbling. When she is pretending, my Muse, poems and stories rise to the surface to show tips of dreamed icebergs made of magma (in-waiting).

ink is fire
forever ready
to spring worlds

 


borrowed from Jungian Genealogy, by Iona Miller

linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads and Poets United