Write by the Light of Your Wounds
From Exiting the Canvas by Kaveh Akbar
Scab-picking again.
my doctor says no more
making scars deeper
thick as rigging on a ship.
impossible to resist like a slice of lemon pie
or a fourth marguerita on a Sunday afternoon
the rush of blood brings life
reminds me who I am. not a dried-up
old lady surviving on bitterness
and bourbon. not a has-been in her eighties
whose children seldom call. certainly not
a one-step-from-the-grave granny
whose daily excitement is counting pills:
Lisinopril, Seroquel, Lipitor, Lunesta.
Long ago I cut with paperclips scissors razors
a private ritual, laying out
soft cotton balls stringent alcohol
soothing tissues strips of band-aids.
lighting a candle
waiting for sweet relief.
hiding slashes under tall socks, sweaters and skirts.
I didn’t really want to die, I wanted
not to feel the pain the pungent pain
of perfection of anxiety of unshared secrets.
now no candles or cotton balls
simply scab-picking memories
scars like trophies of survival
lashed to life.
You Have Got to Be Kidding
A shortage of air traffic controllers is hurting safety
NPR, November 9, 2023
Airline traffic controllers soused, stoned
and staggering after numerous fifteen-hour shifts
a pilot shortage of over twelve thousand
mostly newbies flying in the cockpit
yelling yowie as the plane drops ten thousand feet
Han Solo wannabees
training programs trimmed, so pilots can fly
a jumbo jet with only a few hours of instruction
mostly on the ground
and they expect us to get on a plane, really?
to wait fifty hours for a flight that has been
cancelled four times, now flying first to Fort Worth
then to Seattle before finally heading to Boston
stranded with stale pizza and ominous warnings
that your luggage is subject to search, inspection,
ravage and ruination, only an iPhone
with dismal news of yet another dictator
in yet another country you’ve never heard of
and who wants to stampede, shoving pointless people
aside so you don’t have to check your bags
which would surely be lost, battling for decades
with an insurance agent who speaks only Dahlik
to prove you had a pair of brand-new Gucci boots
and a Versace dress in your suitcase
then buckling into the dreaded middle seat
with the person on the right spilling over
and a screaming child on the left
her parents two rows back, happily blitzed
your emotional support ferret lying at your feet
(five hundred dollars extra) in an airline-compliant cage,
(also five hundred dollars), too far away
to be of any comfort to your frazzled nerves
so you guzzle Xanax like peanut M&Ms
slight turbulence signals the pilot
as the plane pivots and plunges and you know
the wing will fly off any minute
a propeller will sever your spine
and the plane will nose dive into Mount Rushmore
slicing Washington and Lincoln
leaving no survivors
I check the Amtrak schedule.
Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien
—lyrics by Charles Dumont sung by Edith Piaf
I have taken everything that is mine from your dreary duplicitous apartment over Mel’s Wine & Dine
Non, Je ne regrette rien
My tube of Tom’s for wintergreen kisses, my Prada perfume for between the sheets
C’est payé, balayé, oublié
I took my sheer mesh slips and lacy camisoles, my satin trim bras and and skimpy nightgowns that you don’t deserve to see
Je me fous du passé
I have loaded boxes and bags of photos and fast-fading memories and dragged them to the dump
Non, Je ne regrette rien
But in the light of the shimmering rain I see images of Scylla six heads with snaky necks waiting for seafarers to sail by I feel shark teeth in my mouth
An Old Woman in a Dry Season
An old woman in a dry season
wilting worrying
waiting for rain
where is the promised wisdom
the juice the joy
to moisten my sterile soul
today Carlota brought me home
guiding my elbow, checking to be sure
the stove was off, the windows locked
plenty of towels & TP
who cares
I no longer cook
only cheerios floating in blue milk
only bits of cheese on cardboard crackers
no toast nibbled at the morning table
while doing the daily crossword
quick to find:
jumpy little bugger: flea
wool source: llama
now my mind refuses
lack of variety: blank
profound lethargy: blank
I live on dog-eared memories
stained scrapbooks
with withered spines
the present wrapped in
a shroud of the past
which is slowly but surely
becoming the shroud of the future
my future
& still no rain
Open to Revision
The app promises more patience in thirty days
I could definitely use that
more tuned to the bludgeon of intolerance
like a thrumping bull tussling
with the stuffed matador of my imagination
like when my husband takes an extra five minutes
to comb his few hairs, and we are late
for the dreary French film with dreadful reviews
I click on the app and off we go
on our way to a milder mellower self,
wearing a pure cotton T-shirt stenciled with OM.
I am loving this poem!
walk for hours in the woods, inhaling, exhaling
meditate on gratitude for beetles and worms
take a yoga class with alternate nostril breathing
and a two-hour shavasana
I just wasted eight hours,
walking, meditating, inhaling and exhaling.
But the new me is nowhere in sight,
frustration wrapped tightly like rolled-up rug
my husband is reading Sapolsky’s Determination
which denies the existence of free will
so he is not responsible for the piles of dead leaves
or the dandelions desecrating our lawn
and I am not responsible for my impatience
where does this leave us
I need to get out of this stupid poem
before I lose my high horse
galloping off like Silver in the Lone Ranger.
I delete the app, recharge my resentment
and forget about the new improved me
besides I miss our muddling ways
of loving each other
Claire Scott is an award-winning poet who has received multiple Pushcart Prize nominations. Her work has appeared in the Atlanta Review, Bellevue Literary Review, New Ohio Review and Healing Muse among others. Claire is the author of Waiting to be Called and Until I Couldn’t. She is the co-author of Unfolding in Light: A Sisters’ Journey in Photography and Poetry.