She's heard stories of Vietnam vets who can still feel the tingling of their amputated limbs. She's wondering how many women are walking around this … - Andrea Gibson

she's wondering how many women are walking around this world
feeling the tingling of their amputated wings
remembering what it was to fly to sing

My last day as My Own Worst Enemy will be December 31st 2020. In my final two weeks I will:
1) Fire my inner critic, or at least demote it to part time
2) Assure my passions have the tools they need to unionize with my actions
3) Sit naked on the photocopy machine so there are one hundred copies of my ass to kiss when I’m gone.

Though I suspect it won’t bode well for acquiring a positive referral letter, it’s important I state that I’m unwilling to train a replacement in this position. It is my suggestion that the job be eliminated altogether, and that no future person take on the task.

My mother used to knit my mittens
too big so they'd still fit me when
I grew. I wore them and I'd look
like what I wasn't yet. I feel that
sometimes when I'm writing my poems.
They don't yet fit. Ever feel like
the best of you is something you're
still hoping to grow into?

The nutritionist said I should eat root vegetables.
Said if I could get down thirteen turnips a day
I would be grounded, rooted.
Said my head would not keep flying away
to where the darkness lives.

The psychic told me my heart carries too much weight.
Said for twenty dollars she’d tell me what to do.
I handed her the twenty. She said, “Stop worrying, darling.
You will find a good man soon.”

The first psycho therapist told me to spend
three hours each day sitting in a dark closet
with my eyes closed and ears plugged.
I tried it once but couldn’t stop thinking
about how gay it was to be sitting in the closet.

The yogi told me to stretch everything but the truth.
Said to focus on the out breath. Said everyone finds happiness
when they care more about what they give
than what they get.

The pharmacist said, “Lexapro, Lamicatl, Lithium, Xanax.”

The doctor said an anti-psychotic might help me
forget what the trauma said.

The trauma said, “Don’t write these poems.
Nobody wants to hear you cry
about the grief inside your bones.”

But my bones said, “Tyler Clementi jumped
from the George Washington Bridge
into the Hudson River convinced
he was entirely alone.”

My bones said, “Write the poems.