Tuesday, April 20, 2010
My voice is fully back, so are my allergies--juicy sneezes.
Or we could just talk.
Tomorrow a new poem of mine will appear at The Rumpus. This is my first published post-God Damsel poem. As I mentioned before, I haven't been particularly satisfied with what I've written these past few months. I feel like I'm chocked full of poems, but they're bottlenecked or stuck inside. What's been coming out isn't quite right. The poem appearing tomorrow is the best that I've done so far. My dreams lately are full of disconnection, cold-bloodedness, critical comments, denials, the devil--environments not conducive to writing. Well, the devil would be conducive, if I was examining or getting to know it, instead of fighting it.
Today, after a grueling morning at the dentist (the first of two appointments replacing all my old fillings with new ones), I took a nap and dreamed:
I'm very pregnant, overdue. My doctor put some kind second-skin, fabricy material over my stomach to speed up labor. I'm out with a bunch of people who are annoyed that they may have to drive me to the hospital. Chris is out-of-town on business. I call him up and tell him it's time. Then I'm in a parking garage, flagging down a man to drive me to the hospital. He seems put out, but agrees. I think he's worried about me yucking up his sports car. I get to the hospital and Chris is there waiting for me in the birthing room. I walk down the hall to my recovery suite. I must have paid extra, it's really nice, round-the-clock care. My uncle is there waiting for me, which is odd, but a nice gesture. I go to the bathroom to take off the second skin and to see if my water broke. Nurses and a toddler keep coming in, opening doors, disturbing my privacy. I get really frustrated. Someone from my suite yells that a large box of chocolates just arrived. I yell back that I'm kind of busy right now and would they please just leave it. A nurse has a band-aid. I ask what is it for--she says I have a little pig bite on my neck. I'm offended and insist that I certainly do not have a little pig bite on my neck.
* * *
I bet I could finally birth this baby if only I would acknowledge the little pig bite on my neck. Why would I have a little pig bite on my neck? Is this some kind of love hickey? If so, why am I making out with swine and why can't I remember?
1. an individual who posesses devilish or swine powers. usually includes, but not limited to: squealing loudly, goring, listening to metal (Ie. Slayer, Metallica, Black Sabbath), and is usually insane.
The devil pigs on 2nd Anderson gored down Linkin Park.
2. The worst damn kind of pig there is
3. Belzibar the Pork of Darkness
Beware of Belzibar