a year ago i fell in love with sappho. it was sappho
who became my all time favorite poet.
i had lain myself down
with a book of sappho's poems
on my torso.
alongside my body, which was convinced
dying was a peaceful art
i was excelling- and happily, at that,
was a sad little note ("sorry, ma")
and a sad little will.
("take care of it all, ma," or something
to that effect).
what can i say? i didn't take the time
to map out my every move.
i only attended to making the moves
that meant anything to me-
that meant change existed.
they seemed to be the only moves
that needed attending to.
and the EMTs dragged my dead-weight body
across the floor
unto the stretcher. i wasn't a goner.
and i died but rose again.
you never really do stop rising
like a dull little loaf in the oven
at four hundred degrees
that keeps screwing around
with its ingredients
in order to rise, rise, rise
rise, a little higher
each and every time. surely, i ought
today i am reading anne sexton. also
my favorite poet. anne sexton
fucked up a bunch, and conclusively
died of bipolar disorder
like how i almost did.
"it climbed into me.
it didn't mean to.
what can be forgiven