my monthly poem.

I know just about every month I post some writing here and I talk about how much I adore my writing group that I've been a part of for 4 (?) years now. But really, I can't help it, I love them all so much and I don't know if I'd still be writing if it weren't for them. Our meetings are part therapy, part writing, part critique. Cheese and chocolate are always present and the four of us somehow always manage to have some intimate conversations our mothers would blush at and I always leave feeling completely recharged. The piece below is from Sunday, it's rough and needs some editing, but here you go..

I'm not asking for more of anything and I do not want to be saved.
I have a problem with weakness,
I know this.
Weakness in myself, in others,
in the limbs of plants I want to stretch out and grow strong.
Grow-- I say, without plant food.
You have water, light, heat-- now be strong, spread your purple leaves and Grow.
I like her, can feel her soul trying to grow into something good-- you feel the but coming don't you?
In all fairness we had been drinking.
One glass led to two, just to help us unwind
and when we were unwound we had a third
to keep us in that blissful buzzed state.
That led to her drunk driving, just three blocks.
And then me, thinking it was a good idea to wear flip-flops in the rain since my feet were bound to get wet anyway.
The store keeper looked at me as if I were a drunk, slipping across the linoleum
floor with 2 Sierra Nevadas and a cheap bottle of white in my arms.
I liked her that night
Liked the thought of us as friends
There was that moment, that one moment
She picked up the phone, told me she knew just who to call to pick her up
"Barry, come and save me" she spilled into his voice mail, a smile creeping across her face as she looked over at me,
but she said it again, "I need to be saved"-- and my whole body cringed
I like her, she is smart and witty, creative and kind
I understand her insecurities-- and I don't need any more friends, but I could use her in my life
It's just
I wish I never heard that call
It's like a stain on her shirt every time I see her
A window into all her fucked up neurosis I'm not sure I want to be part of yet
I want to give her a walking stick,
a bottle of water, something thick
and strong
a 2 by 4 maybe, I want to hand it over and say "Here--
save yourself. Start now."


jj said...

love it!

t. said...

Thanks jj. Originally I had written this other thing up there about how I'm always getting around to things you know about late and how last night I finally read some of Louise Gluck's poetry. Which I love by the way.

mewannabe said...

really juicy, t. love it. especially the part about how its like a stain on her shirt, and then the ending about the walking stick.... well, i won't repeat it all here! beautiful.

jj said...

oh yeah... she's one of my favorite poets... better late than never! :)