(I always lie too much.)

Call it what you will,
but I like doing this.
Whatever gets me to the page.

I miss him.
I mean, he’s right here,
but rooms away,

locked and lost down
some hallway in his mind.
And, I bit all but one

of my nails off.
Nervous.
It’s that anxiety.

Pulling fistfulls of hair out
in the shower.
Picking at my skin.

I feel old.
Grandma-in-the-nursing-home.
Life doesn’t seem real

some times.
How does it
keep going on?

How are we here
on this clear day with
blue skies and

wisps of white clouds?
Forever looking out windows
and writing…

What was that affirmation
I was supposed to
say out loud?

“Let God work through me.
I’ll take care of the quantity.
He takes care of the quality.”

Mother Mary, may I ask you again…
everything…and you’ve always
obliged, always provided.

I wrote poetry just for you.
Whole pages filled with
proclamations, declarations,

emancipation from the world
as I knew it to be, into worlds
just waiting to be known.

Just keep going,
just keep writing,
just keep filling the page,

always, always, I say!
“Edit,” but, I never do.
I stuff it full.

More always, always,
to-the-brim-stuffed.
I always like too much.

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