A single word, a picture — A dream drifts through, haunting my brain pulling me sharply from the kitchen. Supper burns on the stove, beds lie unmade, sleep interrupted.
One word drags others in its wake. They beat like a drum at the base of my skull, pulsing, shoving, pressing against bone, pounding until I can’t ignore them.
I spill them onto the page, before they’re swallowed by the hush of dark matter, drawn into the slow gravity of age.
Once released, they breathe on their own, gasping, growing, seeking their place in the world. The pulse quiets, the ache recedes. They lean on you now.
I write about loss, memory, and the strange humor that keeps us alive. My poems wander between grief and the grace of nature, often pausing to laugh at life.
I used to suffer from migraines. It has morphed to this strange new form. I have described the feeling in this short poem. I remember drifting off to sleep when the lines of a yet-to-be-written poem started pulsing through my brain. I refused to get…
