You may recall that the theme of the workshop this month was "Happiness," which, when I first selected it, seemed completely fine. In the ensuing weeks, however, my relationship with happiness has been a little bit rocky. So, I showed up tonight with poems, writing prompts, and not a whole lot of enthusiasm for the anything besides the salsa and chips.
The people at the workshop really lifted my spirits, which had been in the septic tank most of the day. Plus, I was able to write some decent beginnings for new poems. It is late now, and I have no idea what the rest of this night has in store for me. So, I'm going to leave you with one of the raw pieces I wrote earlier this evening.
Saint Marty is trying to reclaim his happiness.
Can I Tell You?
Can I tell you that you were beautiful in your hospital bed, with your dark hair oiled to your face? Can I say that your chapped lips parted, and air bubbled between them in tiny hiccups, and that was beautiful, too? Can I mention the sound of the IV beside you, beeping, pinging like a tiny railroad crossing, how beautiful that noise was? Can I say how I sat beside you and held your hand as you slept, and even the smell of you was beautiful--the sweat and stale breath and gas coming from your body? And the sour sweetness of breast milk rising from your nightgown, how it filled me with layers and layers of onion contentment. Peel away a layer. Contentment. Peel away another layer. More contentment. Can I tell you all this now, so many years later? Can I remind you of the happiness we had that day, that night, as the sun went down on our son's first hours of breath? How I didn't know that moment, holding your hand, watching you sleep, was one of the best moments of my life? If I had only known. If I had only known.
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