I don’t write poetry, it writes me. When I’m wrestling with a burden squeezing my heart, maybe it’s a worry for my children or some internal demon trying to steal my kwan, I can’t let it go until I release it from the tip of my pen-or stroke of my keyboard.
It wasn’t until just eight shorts months ago with the death of my soul mate, my husband of 24 years, that I discovered the healing properties of poetry. Poetry doesn’t require me to put together cohesive prose, but allows me to release sporadic and intermittent tears, like a hose with a good nozzle.
Grief comes and goes, sometimes triggered by a faint smell or a song on the radio, or a shadow creeping at the edges of my vision, only to turn and find nothing there. It’s like tiny pinpricks of loss, stabbing at my facade, poking holes that will slowly leak until at midnight, alone in my bed, I hear the prolonged, faint hiss, keeping me awake.
That’s when poetry writes me, closing the tiny holes with ragged patches of words, held together with salty tears.
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