Verdant

We stared at the lava lamp

talked a while

listened to the airplanes take off

land

thirty-five years passed

things were the same

things were different

 

despite it all

the discouragement

the tutting

head shaking

the criticism

the silence

despite it all

I was writing

 

reading too

and sick

and tired

of poems about love

and self-loathing

and nature

the sky is blue

just like your soul

we get it

 

verdant no more

cerulean no more

obsidian no more

enough

enough

enough

 

give me poems of bile and blood

of finding his toenail clippings under the skirting board

years after

of the scar on her forehead

and the blood on his bed

of the walls and the wails

and the bitten down nails

give me sweat, skin and bone

and an unanswered phone

make it real

give me real

give me real