behind drawn curtains
it’s so much easier
to simply say you are confused.
As a matter of belief.
A white girl from the suburbs.
Becoming
aware of privilege
on Saturday night.
Your grandmother’s age-freckled
hands around her favorite
teacup
Dog tags clicked
against his chest
our capacity to endure grief—
what really counts
in a person:
the act of
making clay, of
piling it onto the wheel
What if
the value of suffering
is
that it gifts us with
compassion?
But who hasn’t been
a bitch
when times are
tough?
It’s because of you, vodka.
Whoa there, Bessy.
I don’t
owe you five cents.
Bullshit.
We’ve got to
stop this, folks.
(animal cookies encouraged)
Discomfort tells me something important
about the boundary between
who I think I am and what
I want to be.
I will die inside this skull.
Beyond tragedy,
the joy and beauty of it is that we get
to be here it all.
After all,
this is game time, Cupcake.
[Lines and photos taken from posts on this blog January to December 2013. Line breaks mine.]
The Trailer Park MFA 