by Melissa Allen
I take my shoes off
to feel how hard the road is
all the pollen in the world the weight of him
of rotting rosehips…
the decision is final
It’s been a long week, and my brain’s full of stuff. Bad stuff, good stuff…the operative word is “full.” All the stuff is churning around in my brain as if my brain were one of those slightly insane overactive washing machines that you’re always a little afraid will actually walk out of the basement during the spin cycle. I sit down and try to let poetry settle out of my mind, work its way through the filters and the silt of my subconscious and gather in a clear quiet pool somewhere I can get to it, and–there my brain goes, shaking again, everything in a big muddy mess.
I might just need to sit down everyday and write to you guys. You’re remarkably calming. You won’t mind if I get all journal-y on you, will you? I mean, journal-y in a “yeah, there’s some poetry here, but I make no guarantee about its quality” kind of way? Thanks, I knew you’d understand.