I’d like to say these are the hard years
but what year has gone down easily as nectar?
Each has had its own insistent bone
clawing the back of the throat
unable to be coughed up
Not that grace is impossible
but just once to dance towards it lightly!
Instead, dragged belly, I inch
interminably forward – feral and wanting ̶
unable to bury or abandon my midden
acid-etched in the splintered sun.
You can read more Tuesday poems if you start here.