I venture out to the poetry workshop.
I sit in the meeting room
At a long rectangular table
Crowded with poets.
I wonder if the others notice
That I am naked,
As transparent as the picture windows
On the wall opposite me
Blasting the white glare of autumn sunlight.
I listen quietly.
The instructor–warm, wise,
Who knows something of life–
Tells us about the crow
Who sits on our shoulder
Holding us back from writing honestly.
She says we have to knock the crow
Off our shoulders.
She says, “Write a poem
About something you are afraid to say.”
I feel the crow’s weight
“My crow is a vulture
Who eats me alive every day.
We live symbiotically.
He is my identity.
He looks like my ex.”
I tell myself, “I can survive.”
But I should say,
“I can do without that damn vulture.
We don’t have to be joined at the shoulder.”
I should knock him to the ground
And eat him for dinner,
And not worry about
Who would I be without him.
[This post was included in the March 2013 edition of the Third Sunday Blog Carnival.]
© Sweepy Jean and Sweepy Jean Explores the (Webby) World, 2012