This morning, I decided to play with lines from rough drafts that I abandoned, never turning them into finished drafts. I opened documents going back to May, and assembled these lines (feel free to play too):
I leave the key
To unlock the code in my sewing
Basket.
A monastery in the desert, too far
For the maniacal
We all comment on the coldness
Of this winter.
I am tired of tethers,
We saw the signs early
a summer
Of sorbet and lemonade.
Walking by flashlight, startled
By my bear shaped shadow.
the wolf
At the door in the form of a hurricane
In a time of trouble, she knits
Socks of all sizes.
A monastery in the desert, too far
For the maniacal
We all comment on the coldness
Of this winter.
I am tired of tethers,
We saw the signs early
a summer
Of sorbet and lemonade.
Walking by flashlight, startled
By my bear shaped shadow.
the wolf
At the door in the form of a hurricane
In a time of trouble, she knits
Socks of all sizes.
--------------
After an hour or two of tinkering and internet meandering, here's what I came up with. I have no idea how I feel about the poem itself, but the process of creating it was immensely satisfying. It is not autobiographical--I've had no biopsy, I can't scramble up rock faces, I prefer crocheting to knitting while my grandmother preferred embroidery, I don't think I should have been making plans to move. The bit about being startled by my shadow, thinking it might be a bear as I walked in the dark with a flashlight--that part is true.
After a summer of sorbet and lemonade,
I tire of my own frivolity. I am the grasshopper,
not the ant. I have made ice cream
when I should have been earning
money and making plans to move.
The wolf at the door
in the form of a hurricane
or a biopsy or election results.
I dream of a monastery in the desert, far
from the maniacal.
I saw the sign early,
walking by flashlight, startled
by my bear shaped shadow.
In the summer, I scrambled up the rock face
to gather berries. In the fall,
I fight the urge to hibernate.
We will comment on the coldness
of this winter. I struggle
to stay awake. In my sewing
basket, a small ball of yarn.
I think of my grandmother
who knitted socks of all sizes,
her form of resistance.
I prefer scarves. I have always chosen
long lines: poetry or code or check out line,
a chain to connect us all.
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