Recently my grandmother and I had a chance to talk about the book; she had just received and read her copy and wanted to know about this particular poem. The conversation meandered from e.e.cummings to the ASCII art form and to Spoon Theory and chronic illness. While we didn’t really get to finish, it seemed like the first conversation in a long while that brought us both a lot of joy.
That has happened repeatedly since releasing this baby of all the feels into the wild. I feel as though I have done something permanent and beautiful, without being fake or polishing over the jagged bits and everyone good is invited to the party.
So I’ve started to strut around in my own life, refreshed with a kind of cosmic permission to be here in this world just as I am because, damn it, I have poetry to write about all of this and someone is already waiting to read it.
I should note: My grandmother is also a talented artist and creator. She is the music teacher, the piano player, the painter, the scribe, the self taught masseuse who rubbed away every belly ache we could bring her. She writes the best post it notes and loves to flip me off. i am lucky to have her.
So long story longer the poem reads : ” I am out of spoons and so very tired now ”