Polarbear ran a workshop at The Roundhouse last sunday. We spoke about writing imaginary conversations. Here's the first draft of a poem I got out of it.
I’m
sitting in a chair, it creaks when I move,
It
sounds like it doesn’t want to take my weight.
I’m
talking to Mark – he is playing the role
of
my therapist. Mark says I don’t look like I’m all there.
Like parts of me pull in so many directions -
I'm never in one place.
I
am staring at a crack in the wall
telling
Mark about my dreams,
the
dreams where grief
is a suit I can’t take off,
Mark...
This
might be the year my grandma dies –
This
might be the year my other years anticipated.
This
might be the year something about me that I like changes.
Mark
looks at me like my body won’t take my weight
like I creak when I move.