a poem a day for a year #37

there are at least 50 ways to cure your sadness

but most of the ones that I am fond of

involve hard liqueur and reckless red lips


sometimes I just can't sit inside of my skin

I have to move fast like a boxer

counting out all of the beats of my brain

I have to read Wallace Stevens by the train tracks

and tell my husband that I am going out for milk

but instead standing in a nearby field

dizzy from the motion

woozy from the worry

I kick at the cake mud wet ground and wonder

when it will be that I am a good person