last night I dreamt we met in person
and talked of all the mundane things
that make a life, like where did I leave
my phone (again), and how to choose
a swimsuit, and, consulting with a friend,
how the voles across the street are having
triplets, and what a forgetful day I’d had
I was exasperated and apologetic, and you
said “maybe just not a very planned one”
and you were right and I felt better, now
(where did I leave my wallet?) and how
beautiful the night was with people
in the plaza, fires burning in rings
folks gathering around them, floating
voices scattered quietly like starlight
dancing on the night air, and you joked
how brave it was for you to visit Texas
heat, you wore a lightweight cotton
button-down shirt in white, sleeves
rolled up to elbows, and a long, flowing
skirt, an effortless picture of style
and leisure and you laughed, but I
agreed, so grateful you were there
and grateful for nightfall’s respite,
small relief, we walked and talked
(looking for my wallet), considering
sleeping fields of voles, tucked
inside their holes, you asked me
something about a poem, and I
never found my answer, interrupted
by all the sights and sounds around
and the joy of our own laughter,
talking of the things of life and all
the sorts of lovely forgettable and
memorable things that happen
when two share company together
in the reality of manifested presence
little spade foot toad
I’m thinking of the frog song, penetrating night,
cacophony of varied strains, each eager to be heard
settled somewhere one block down along the creek
I cannot see, but know runs through the land beyond
the pasture, unseen, also silent, until springtime storms
soak hard clay and amphibious chorus resounds
I walk the neighborhood most nights, spring
through autumn, and always watch for wildlife
my inner child eagerly hoping for some small glimpse
of possum, skunk, or — after rain, perhaps a frog.
each washed-up clod of dirt on dark and glistening road
a hoped-for friend. this time the rains came heavily
flooding our yard and filling our home with muddy paws
for days, but only frog-song, only clods, until one night,
long after I stopped looking, a hop in the darkness
at the edge of the road. I descended with childlike thrill,
moved my hands just so, anticipated each hop’s protest
my desire to contain, I gently cupped the creature
scooped her up and held her in my hands the half-block home
she wriggled and writhed, pushing strong legs against
the cave walls of my hands, I beamed — delighted to feel
her little body’s squirm — to feel the vibrance of her life
impress its mighty scale upon me, she bhrupped,
I startled slightly, eyes wide with wonder and joy
at home I slipped her into a small aquarium under
porch-light glow and watched her breathe and hop,
the power of her legs — how I long for love of creatures
who long only to be wild — I may feel her, but only under
unseen darkness of capped palm — or I may watch her,
contained and inaccessible to touch — for to hold her,
hands wide open — to feel her as I gaze, would provoke
a hop away — she knows nothing of the love I have
for her, loving dark, moist burrows, outings in the night
after rains, a hope for a well-fed tummy. my love for her
irrelevant, not knowingly needed for her survival
I am an interloper — too big, too bold to comprehend —
so I reach in gently, wrap my slender fingers around her
little body and long legs, and carry her home in the dark
to the corner where grass meets asphalt and set her
kindly on the dewey earth — I urge her with a nudge
and whispered blessing away from the road and say
a silent prayer she will be safe and well,
this singular beauty, plucked from the ground
away from the choir of song, a chance encounter
with the divine, little spade foot toad.
Not a spade foot toad… but an American bullfrog… and an absolute bucket-list dream come true for me. I hope I have the chance to meet another someday!
no, I won't be coming by...
No, I won’t be coming by this evening. The truth is, I’m still much too upset about the expressive deer and how the woman grabbed and held her sculpted antler firm, the animal wildly tossing her head in protest — unable to wrest herself from opposable monkey grip.
I slept restlessly, then not at all, disturbed by the scene still replaying in my mind — and bothered also by you - the upset wouldn’t dissipate.
You left to check the gate, or so you said, then came back an hour later with a woman — it seems you paraded around the park together in the dark, twinkle-lit glow. You introduced us — and I learned she knows me as the one who tends your cat when you’re away and nothing more — despite all the other ways we’ve been together. Funny how I’ve never heard you speak of her excepting one casual mention two weeks ago in which it appears I mistook her for a casual professional acquaintance (when it seems I should have thought of more).
In haste and awkwardness you thrust leftover chocolate wrapped in ziplock bag into her hands. All the others having left, just the three of us remaining, I turned to retrieve my things and found you left without me, escorting her to the exit. We could have walked as three. If she wasn’t there you would have waited — (as you’re known to do at evening’s end) but as it was, this time I was forgotten. You walked her to her car and I walked to mine alone — shaken from overstimulation — an evening gone too long, compounded by unexpected turns. Under spotlight glare above, I began to cry.
I felt too much at once and knew not what to do. So, circling under fallen night, pulling up along the lake, running the heater on high, ignoring the lying lights on water (no longer scenes of cozy christmas cheer but gestures of hurts instead) — I put pen to paper in darkness — hoping to later redeem my scrawl and make some sense of things.
It dawned on me that she’s the one you share your songs and thoughts with now — your current casual flirtation. Your screen lit up beside me through long dark drive the night before —— while I navigated lonely, aching void, you were most attentive elsewhere via text. Not so long ago you gave that piece of you to me. You were fun and playful then, affectionate too — before your long departure and subsequent guarded return.
Two weeks ago something wild lay down to rest inside of me. I achieved a state of confidence emboldening me to express my needs quite plainly — a final bid for a two-way friendship. I thought it the arrival I’d been seeking between us. But last night something cracked.
I myself am the deer — my antlers twisted in your primal grasp these many months. All my efforts to navigate, understand, extract — I fought you as well as my own desires and you used the kinds of words that kept me held in hope. Last night all gave way and I find myself bleeding and wounded, but free.
ode to the longing ache
in my chest a swelling void
electric hunger humming
heart clenching arrested breath
a text, a smile, a laugh
a tender look, a touch
bring brief alleviation
then thumping, throbbing
begins again, slowly
at first, then escalating
firmly pressing beneath
caged ribs expanding
spreading me wide
open, I want to swallow
life whole - those I love
gulped down inside me
there’s room in there to spare
all the beauty in the world
could not quell the tender bruising
left by restless soul
forever pacing, hunting
for that which might relieve
insatiable desire
During October, theconstantpoet is pulling poetry prompts from The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. Today’s word was ghough: a hollow place in your psyche that can never be filled; a bottomless hunger for more food, more praise, more attention, more affection, more joy, more sex, more money, more hours of sunshine, more years of your life; a state of panic that everything good will be taken from you too early, which makes you want to swallow the world before it ends up swallowing you.
This is a feeling I’m all too familiar with. Psychological theory might ascribe it to anxious attachment. The Enneagram paradigm might say it’s the famous ‘missing piece’ well-known to Fours. Because this is a feeling I live with all the time with very little respite, I’m well acquainted with these different ways of looking at it. What was so refreshing about this prompt was that I didn’t have to analyze it, explain it, or dissect it… I was just invited to sit with it - to let it be what it is. I found some relief in this - to practice holding and processing what is there instead of trying to do something about it. This relieved the pressure of feeling like I need to fix this quality and instead gently nudged me to get to know it better as it is and always has been. There’s a beauty in that. Even melancholy holds gifts for those able and willing to receive. I received a gift by spending time with this poem.
on loneliness
You asked when I felt lonely - I answered, almost always.
I feel lonely when I’m with you, on the couch, talking about fun or funny things or about hard, sad things and we aren’t touching. Touch from someone known and loved makes joy more joyful and pain more bearable. It makes a space feel safe to me. I feel lonely when we watch a movie and I feel the absence of your hand or arm resting on me.
I feel lonely in the middle of my work day, even with the company of the dogs (though they help, they are my anchors in each day), devoid of human connection - in the house I feel alone. I look to my phone, where my friends live near and far, and pop into chats full of funny dog videos, or relatable content for a millennial woman - share laughter with my friends. I check the community boards of my membership groups and connect with gorgeous, creative souls the world over on expansive, generative, spiritual, intellectual topics in chat threads. Each connection a small spark, but not enough to sustain a fire in me.
I feel lonely in the night - alone in bed in the dark - unable, at times, to sleep. I long to be held together, arms wrapped around so firmly that my seams no longer strain. Once, in high school, I felt myself held in the hand of God - curled up in his cupped palm - a transcendent, embodied experience.
These longings to be touched, seen, and held are also longings to be loved. To feel valued and worthy of the time and attention of those I love, admire, and respect. Even as I’ve grown into confidence of self (for I can tell myself these things now) - a melancholy remains - a longing for The Other.
You asked if I feel lonely when I take my many drives, almost always alone - I answered no. The drives have felt purpose and meaning. They are meditative, restorative, an escape from the suffering rather than suffering itself. The drives feel like solitude. There is an important distinction between loneliness and solitude. One depletes and the other gives. Solitude is a gift, a respite.
I said I thought the other side of loneliness is hope. Hope for connection: physical, intellectual, emotional, spiritual. Connection drives my relationships, yes, but also my art. I make art to connect with others. Sure, others seeing my art helps me feel seen, but what really drives me is to create that experience for others - to contribute the kind of magic in the world that comes from encountering a piece of art - a zine, a photograph, an illustration, a handmade sculptural piece - and seeing yourself in it: unlocking deeper knowing and understanding of yourself, or others. To transcend the corporeal forms that separate us and shift into oneness of spirit - to feel “I am not alone. Someone else has felt this too.”
This is why I write, make art. This is why I nurture, this is why I listen, observe, talk, touch, reach out. I find the divine in these spaces - in those moments when things become blurred between ‘you’ or ‘I’ and there’s a felt sense of closeness we can rest in together. This is what I hunger for when the loneliness comes.
I said it felt like a companion. You suggested perhaps that’s its intended purpose - not something to wish away. I admit, when I heard you say it I didn’t want it to be true. Loneliness is melancholy on the precipice of pain, sometimes slipping into suffering. But - on further reflection, I think you’re right. Without this quiet companion haunting me, where would I find my drive to reach out, connect, create, and seek out ways to love the world well? It’s not unreasonable to wonder if the loneliness is in fact a mystical intervention… a reminder that so many of the thin spaces where I’ll brush up against Divinity are in the context of connecting with others.
