The cataracts have fully-formed, her hearing is sub-par, the cystic tumor on her back, right paw coupled with her age aren’t the best candidates for surgery, yet she continues to give me joy and affection on the roughest of days; she always forgets her pain for me.
down days come often
stretching their arms around me
I forget to live
people understand
they know it will take some time
I want to move on
I just can’t
went album hunting
on my 42nd, filled
with excitement to
dive into hundreds of
crates with artists’ smiles
or avant garde masterpieces
marking up the covers.
I hunted for The Isley Brothers,
Hall & Oates, and Moonchild,
but found the Commodores and
Leonard Cohen, instead.
my time was not wasted
as I increased my collection
by three more good
finds for under thirty dollars.
I paid my fee, shared my
store credit with the college-aged
woman standing behind the
plexiglassed station, and loaded
up my new babies in
my motivated arms.
I fell in love with music
all over again when the needle
licked the first record of
choice. I spent hours
replaying the feelings and
emotions building a tower
in my heart.
I’ll go again next weekend.
I’ve written a book of poems
no one can read right now
without crying or feeling
like their heart will raise itself
up out of their chest, and walk
away willingly.
it helped me–to flesh out those
poems–to lend them to the air
around me, and grieve . . .
truly grieve as each day passes.
it’s in phases.
sad to acceptance to mourning
to celebrating the life she
lived and being grateful to
share the same blood with a
human being so God-damned
special.
I know the agony my family
feels as they struggle through
each poem.
I know the pain that creeps in,
sits at attention, and waits
to be acknowledged.
I know all of this because I
wrote the words that causes
the pain that helps me heal.
I am not of
importance to her–I know this–I
I feel this.
I’m just a blip on an endless
radar of exploration.
I am not a priority.
I am not a priority.
eventually, I’ll have to
find the courage to pursue
someone–anyone who
knows my worth–who appreciates
my existence.
I deserve it.
don’t we all?
The indomitable Sarah Doughty, beautiful people. Truth is spoken here–such truth.
“Here’s the thing:
Nothing about this is okay.
You are not okay.”
Here’s the thing you don’t seem to understand. You aren’t funny. Intolerance, bigotry, and misogyny is no laughing matter. It is not okay to turn someone’s fears into a joke. It is not okay to mock someone. It is not okay taunt a victim. To make excuses for what happened to them. To make light of what they needed to do to survive.
Have you not noticed the trail of burned bridges you’ve left behind you? Have you not noticed the people you have offended? How about the fact that they are women, or men that appreciate women for who they are? Their strength. Their resilience.
No. It is not okay. You are not okay. Get some fucking perspective and some humility while you’re at it.
© Sarah Doughty
Try to learn to be better.
For the sake…
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