poetry has rarely been my “thing.” in school, i barely understood it. it went over my head and heart, seeming like a language i did not know.
recently, i’ve been discovering poetry that resonates, that bridges that gap for me, such as Yrsa Daley-Ward. this is one of her poems from bone:
when it is but it ain’t
Some of us love badly. Sometimes the love is the type of love that implodes. Folds in on itself. Eats its insides. Turns wine to poison. Behaves poorly in restaurants. Drinks. Kisses other people. Comes back to your bed at four a.m. smelling like everything outside. Asks about your ex. Is jealous of your ex. Thinks everyone a rival. Some of us love others badly, love ourselves worse. Some of us love horrid, love beastly, love sick, love anti light. Sometimes the love can’t go home at night, can’t sleep with itself, cannot contain itself, catches fire, destroys the belly, strips buildings, goes missing. Punches. Smashes heirlooms. Tells lies. The best lies. Fucks around. Writes poems, impresses people. Chases lovers into corners. Leaves them longing. Seasick. Says yes. Means anything but. Tricks the body. Kills the body.
Dances wild
and walks away, smiling.
oof, every time. oof.
becki's a practicing human 