Therefore, Nick Flynn is the Poet of the Week.
I'm still not feeling 100 percent tonight. I took some Motrin when I got home, and then I took a nap. A nice, long nap. When I got up, I had rebounded about 70 percent, whether it was the sleep or the medication. I have more energy right now than I've had all day long.
Nick Flynn's poem for today is stunning, full of dark beauty. It's one of those poems that makes me want to pick up my pen and write. And, now, I have some time to do just that. My only problem is this stupid illness, whatever it is.
Saint Marty hopes to write about a bag of mice soon, maybe after a glass of wine. Or two.
Bag of Mice
by: Nick Flynn
I dreamt your suicide note
was scrawled in pencil on a brown paperbag,
& in the bag were six baby mice. The bag
opened into darkness,
from the top down. The mice,
huddled at the bottom, scurried the bag
across a shorn field. I stood over it
& as the burning reached each carbon letter
of what you'd written
your voice released into the night
like a song, & the mice
|I'm in it for the money, too|