Robin Kinzer
Dreaming of Lilacs
Maybe there’s a part of me that thought
it would be easier to divide up books, dresses,
furniture, even my three fuzzy felines. That it
might be simpler to go ahead and go this time.
Maybe I’ve spent my entire adult life waiting
for this— sandbagged and sweating, burn scars
scattered across my abdomen, so often sick,
so often in too much pain to stand. To even sit.
Maybe I function as bear trap, ready to snap
myself at the knees. Pain no longer bloodless.
Maybe when I heard 45% fatality in five years,
a part of me was ready to lay down and let go.
Maybe I passed the field of wild lilacs again last
night, pulled my ancient blue Subaru over to the side
of the road, closed my eyes, and imagined the petals
closing, soft and satin, over my entire body.
Maybe I’ve stopped showering. I’ve stopped
brushing my teeth. I’m afraid to leave the house,
check the locks ten times a day. Maybe it took just
a few months of recurrence to backslide so far
that it’s hard to remember the self I spent years
reclaiming. I built a life away from the feral
abdominal pain, the choking nausea, the inability
to eat. Still, here we are, facing down the worst
odds of this forty-one year history of illness after
illness. A part of me is just tired of standing
in pharmacy lines, of recycling slim orange bottles,
of trying twice as hard to do half as much.
A part of me is just done, has been done
for a long time now. Is ready to lie down in
the field of lilacs. To wrap the purple petals across
my powder-pale skin, and finally get some sleep.
it would be easier to divide up books, dresses,
furniture, even my three fuzzy felines. That it
might be simpler to go ahead and go this time.
Maybe I’ve spent my entire adult life waiting
for this— sandbagged and sweating, burn scars
scattered across my abdomen, so often sick,
so often in too much pain to stand. To even sit.
Maybe I function as bear trap, ready to snap
myself at the knees. Pain no longer bloodless.
Maybe when I heard 45% fatality in five years,
a part of me was ready to lay down and let go.
Maybe I passed the field of wild lilacs again last
night, pulled my ancient blue Subaru over to the side
of the road, closed my eyes, and imagined the petals
closing, soft and satin, over my entire body.
Maybe I’ve stopped showering. I’ve stopped
brushing my teeth. I’m afraid to leave the house,
check the locks ten times a day. Maybe it took just
a few months of recurrence to backslide so far
that it’s hard to remember the self I spent years
reclaiming. I built a life away from the feral
abdominal pain, the choking nausea, the inability
to eat. Still, here we are, facing down the worst
odds of this forty-one year history of illness after
illness. A part of me is just tired of standing
in pharmacy lines, of recycling slim orange bottles,
of trying twice as hard to do half as much.
A part of me is just done, has been done
for a long time now. Is ready to lie down in
the field of lilacs. To wrap the purple petals across
my powder-pale skin, and finally get some sleep.
Biography
|
Robin Kinzer is a queer, disabled poet and sometimes memoirist. She was once a communist beaver in a PBS documentary. She previously studied psychology and poetry at Sarah Lawrence and Goucher Colleges and is now an MFA candidate at University of Baltimore. Robin has poems recently published or shortly forthcoming in Little Patuxent Review, Wrongdoing Magazine, Gutslut Press, Fifth Wheel Press, Corporeal Lit, Defunkt Magazine, and others. She loves glitter, Ferris wheels, and waterfalls. She also loves radical kindness, vintage fashion, and carnivals. She can be found on Twitter at @RobinAKinzer
|
