Be the Change
I write about change, how we must welcome it and grow but I have started a new notebook and I miss the other. I want more pages, so I can write til I’m done writing but the pages are filled and I’m not done writing and this new book doesn’t feel like home.
A real poet can write anywhere, on napkins, the margins of books, your sneakers if you have to, so it’s not the book. It’s the wanting what’s gone that you can’t bring back. I wanted a good mother, when my mother died, it’s not so much that I missed *her* (oh, the shame), but I missed the opportunity of having a good mother. And I was sad but I was angry, which had to be quickly buried.
My mother my anger, dead to me, my father a useless shadow and Jesus, who wanted to help, (I’d been told), was a fabulous figment, an ethereal friend. His sweetness everywhere apparent, yet invisible
LBM 3/6/2021
