honeydunce

the faith of january

Like a mouth,
hands,
or
the storm drain after days
of downpour—
when even the brim
is a lousy contender.

For what it’s worth,
think of this:
the fullness.

every day she lays out the clothes and poison,
then she checks on gretal rising in the oven.

praise the miracle body: the odd
and undeniable mechanics of hand,
hundred-boned foot, perfect stretch
of tendon
praise the veins that river these wrists
praise the prolapsed valve in a heart
praise the scars marking a gall bladder absent
praise the rasp and rattle of functioning lungs
praise the pre-arthritic ache of elbows
and ankles
praise the lifeline sectioning a palm
praise the photographic pads of fingertips
praise the vulnerable dip at the base of a throat
praise the muscles surfacing on an abdomen
praise these arms that carry babies
and anthologies
praise the leg hairs that sprout
and are shaved
praise the ass that refuses to shrink
or be hidden
praise the cunt that bleeds
and accepts, bleeds
and accepts
praise the prominent ridge
of nose
praise the strange convexity of ribcage
praise the single hair that insists on growing
from a right areola
praise the dent where the mole was clipped from the back
of a neck
praise these inner thighs brushing
praise these eyelashes that sometimes turn inward
praise these hips preparing to spread
into a grandmother’s skirt
praise the beauty of the freckle
on the first knuckle of a left little finger
we’re gone / in a blizzard of seconds
love the body human
while we’re here, a gift of minutes
on an evolving planet, a country
in flux / give thanks
for bone and dirt
and the million things that will kill us
someday, motion and the pursuit
of happiness / no guarantees / give thanks
for chaos theory, ecology, common sense that says
we are web. a planet in balance or out, that butterfly
in tokyo setting off thunderstorms in iowa,
tell me you don’t matter to a universe that conspired
to give you such a tongue, such rhythm
or rhythmless hips, such opposable thumbs –
give thanks or go home a waste of spark
speak or let the maker take back your throat
march or let the creator rescind your feet
dream or let your god destroy your good and fertile mind
this is your warning / this
your birthright / do not let
this universe regret you.
- marty mcconnell

Another rough start to another work week. The Monday migraine unfolded its toxic limbs into Tuesday. On Wednesday, the monster dragged itself away leaving behind dizzy spells–they felt like the ocean residing from shore. My description of “feel” never quite makes the sense I need it to: yesterday I felt like a face without features, a two dimensional nothing–I never know how to feel after hours of feeling like dying. [sidenote about describing how I feel during/after an attack: very difficult to articulate to someone who doesn’t get them. Talking to a person that does? They can finish my sentences.]

Stuck with the last plane of plexiglass between me and the rest of the world. Prolonged amounts of pain will separate you. The mind goes somewhere else–never am I more of a shell than when I am in pain. Honestly I am not sure where I go. This is also why it’s difficult to ask for help–in the moment I know I need something, but what? Usually it comes down to wanting the presence of another being. Going through a migraine is a tumble down the rabbit hole–reality becomes a separate entity. Having a friend there keeps me from drifting too far, I think.

I’m meeting with one of my doctors at lunch time tomorrow. Here is where wheels are heaved in motion. I have to take a deep breath and just go for it, even though I know it sucks. Scheduling appointments, paperwork, referrals, medication suggestions and tests. Time to climb through those hoops again, knowing half the battle is staying encouraged. I fear the side effects and of course I fear the lack of an answer(again). How much will I have to compromise? I ask myself that but then think about big blank spots left in the wake of another migraine, the big blank spots gnawing through my days. I think about how much I already compromise. How I’ve built my limits around those wretched things.

Sometimes I feel conflicted when it comes to this space and sharing. I’ve been journaling online since 1999(journaling longhand since gosh knows when, but I’ve never been extremely consistent). Plus the act of writing new poems can be a bit of life dictation. I’ve gone through moments of considerable self-exposure as well as moments of total silence/never-mentioning. Perhaps it’s growing up–maybe privacy means something different to me now with more experiences and years tucked in the belt. I can’t bring myself to clutter this space with the day-to-day, no matter how normal or fantastic. Yet here is a day when my fingers are twitching to gather it up and slather it on here.

I’ve pushed through yet another month’s iron fist of migraines–spat out the other side in a state that always confuses and worries me. I get so tired of fighting them and the amount of pain baffles me. I’ve stuck a new rule onto my stages of pain management: always let somebody know that it’s happening. I’ve entertained the thought of developing a single phrase or code word for quick texts to friends. Positive thoughts are powerful things–the more minds I can get thinking them in that moment, the better. I’ve also thought up this rule because I get scared. If anything terrible happens, then my state and whereabouts are out there in some way. I really hate to type that here but I’ve got to be honest about this.

It is still a learning process…knowing and accepting that I am more than a reoccurring ailment, more than the white hot blank space that fills me in the throes of it. I am more than a dip in chemicals and moody aftershock. I try to balance myself between being attentive/taking care of myself and catering too much to it. Pain is a funny thing that way. If you experience it a lot, routinely, then it never truly leaves your sight. When it isn’t there, I start to wonder when it will come back. I start wanting to shove everything I can into that good non-pain day–gotta live live live because gosh knows these things take away so much of my days. I do not want to overprotect myself–too much caution feels constricting. It’s a balance and half the time I’ve got one foot swung out and both arms pinwheeling.

I’ve had a few readings this month(another quick one tonight). I’ve enjoyed them all on a brand new level. Something feels simultaneously sharpened, relaxed, and ignited. I’ve been reading my work like this for 13 years so new levels are wonderful and welcomed. I feel inspired again by the simple act of sharing. I’ve been thinking a lot about what kind of writer I am, that I want to be. Self-respect is going to be the key to my success as a person, and in turn as a writer. How easy we forget. I don’t want to forget anymore.

Here’s to a life-long crush on Eric Burdon.

Georgia. Billboards and red clay, fruit stands. Hotel soaps so slight in their geometrics they became phases of the moon before the shower ended. Hallway carpet I will never see again, hum of ice machine.

Virginia. We dug a big hole in the sand. So big that the children of strangers started appearing with shovels and buckets and helping. At the end of the day we let it go and by evening the crater was swollen with ocean, a full mouth pushing its food around until form lost its shape. Thick aloe leaves snapped and shared, scrubbed like erasers on the essays of our shoulders.

Kentucky. The beautiful girl with the blue dreads, her thin-as-reed companion–head low in yellow shirt. The poems and the car with no heat, shiver down the highway. A man named Falcon in the back room walking in circles, practicing practicing, practicing.

South Carolina. Population of jelly fish against my morning run.

Wisconsin, passing through. Your fields on big hills, cheddar sky.

We’ve had a mild winter. We’re still in February, but I’m saying it loud and proud with my middle finger to the jinx–it’s been mild. No snowfall to temporarily paralyze routine of home to work and work to home. I’m more than happy about it. That being said, I’m starting to feel the deepening groove that “a to b only” routes can make, and sometimes they grow right through the calendar, leaving Wednesday melting into the weekend. A groove that travels like mold. I guess that’s getting to me a bit. That and my grandiose day dreams revolving around warmer temperatures. This mild winter has turned them into godzillas. I’ve got my head in the clouds, on the sun, near the ocean and up all night with the crickets.

Tonight’s Neuroscience lecture introduced me to the neural tube. The neural tube is the introduction of the central nervous system within the embryo. Eventually this groove in its surface will form the spinal cord and brain. Neural folds on either side of the groove are elevated until they meet to kiss the opening shut, creating a tube. And there you have the beginning of the brain, the literal backbone, the universe within a universe.

Cells abandon some dividing to start the process of differentiation–neurons or glial cells. Then comes migration–cells self-organize into various parts of the still-developing brain to create structures, and within those structures come the axons and dendrites which start communicating with other neurons, which leads to motor and sensory process. Ta-da! Brain.

Maybe it’s because I am guilty of getting stuck within my thoughts quite often. Maybe it’s the complex magic that makes up reality, body, function. Maybe it was the bike ride before class that cleared my head well enough to take this in. I don’t know. Learning about the neural tube blew doors off their hinges within me. How petty my money issues and worries or woes compared to learning that my brain developed from a groove. How wonderful to find another something amazing. I was absolutely fascinated and dizzy with the knowledge of this–the growth of a brain. The growth of a brain!

I’m sure to be reeling for a few days on this. I never want to forget this evening. One of those times where I felt substantially moved by science.

epilogue of the bear trap
I sleep in a square. I bookend my profiles with pillows and I keep two below my head. Waking means lifting and climbing’ sleeping means sinking. I dream surrounded.

In the back of the house, rotting limes. They liquefy. Porous green to a brown gray mass, happy dents.

Tell me what surviving did to us. Tight mouth and buoy boats—I’m not buying it. I stand in every aisle of the store, ignore the weekly list. I have no plans. I try to buy them, place my grip around new ones in the far back. Does everything I own have an expiration date? How is my blood? Is it everywhere? Is it obvious? Do I need more?