life, poetry, writing

untitled sadness


photo
by guiba6.

***

sometimes he calls me and i remember
what joy is like — a small explosion
that leaves quiet flecks of longing
in its wake.

around him i pretend loneliness builds bridges
in the hollow walls of my heart.
i smother the fire out of my sadness
by pressing myself against a tiny clump
of grey covers to keep from writhing
into an unacceptable wrinkle of rage.

if he wasn’t the god of my world
maybe i could tell him i cry myself to sleep
wondering if my destiny is enduring
the empty embraces of my cold winter arms.

i protect him from my sadness instead
and talk about the sixteen degree weather
how my body turned winter cold for hours
no matter how close i leaned against the radiator.

i laugh and the sound sticks to my throat
when i say i finished and published my book
about the seven steps to conquer solitude
because of the blessedly empty winters.

he laughs and tell me how easy i have it.
yeah, i say, wrapping the phone cord around my arm
closing my eyes to stop the sticky stream of sadness.

—Lissa E.

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12 thoughts on “untitled sadness”

  1. By some weird coincidence, I was writing a sad poem on winter too … Very heart rending and evocative, especially “unacceptable wrinkle of rage” …Very honest and beautiful!

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  2. So delicate and softly sad and many original touches and complexities. It is the tone that rings out though, your writing is more and more like music,

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  3. ok do you keep vodka in the freezer?

    ha no. i think you read my mind though there was a whole stanza about vodka that was a bit too somber that i took out. crazy, scot.

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  4. I like how you always seem to fill your poems with such emotions, why is it that sadness is always associated with the cold? it is because somehow our body could not not keep warm due to lack of happy, sunny thoughts,

    I love this piece, it reminds sadness as something you can hold on to but very hard to break froom

    Like

  5. lissa, this is beautiful and delicate, seems like prose,
    or a letter written in the 1940’s pr 50’s, and as always
    your authentic voice of emotions glitters.

    Like

  6. I’m insanely jealous…. i live to write like that someday. always a joy to read your ridiculously good writing.

    Like

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