I've.

I've.

A Poem by h d e rushin
"

when you finally realize that you've lost a year of your life.

"
This past January didn't January like other
Januaries Januaried. It was like a lynched man
being lowered to the ground. Or how the cloves

in mothers pear preserves pulled their gearwheels to the end
of  a glories  sweet ivemetaphor. That's how I know
i've had enough. When I rattle and quake through the

white hickory; when I dream of hair balls and hair pins
disappearing or the secret thumb drawings I made on
winter's windows while the radiator fuzzed in tune. I

was a spy then. Still am. A weed straw for oxygen/ pullies
for pants> Promises of sex only to survive the next country wide lock down
or when the all- powerful mask, deemed it so. Truth is

I can remember everything the soiled bandages told me. Oh fellow
poets of gas ovens and running exhaust pipes. Earthlings of the
overdose and the sharp filet knife. Give in to red sweaters

tied around our waist in April. Give in to the bent over blues
when you look in the mirror and your shape, once cute,
is gone forever and the breasts you heave up into mounds
of cyst and chemo. Shake to the music

of the agitate sounds of the wind. Write down the things you
want to ask the doctor. When can I shower again? When
if ever, I can see your bandaged smile beneath  the blue kite that

covers and comes; chews spearmint at 11:30  in dark and empty bath rooms?
Pivot from side to side out of love and concussion, or the bricks I had
to throw at the BLM protest. As for love, Dearest:

rough tangled and drawing closer by the second.
Dance your trembled boogaloo  on the shag carpet
with interchangeable tiger feet.

© 2021 h d e rushin


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Reviews

Maybe I'm too far removed from all this anguish, but I love your style of exaggerating the depth of how a thing feels (but still based on big truths) & using intense & original metaphors that snap out a load of meaning in just a few well-chosen words. I don't feel anything like this poem. I feel I've dodged a huge bullet here in the wilderness. But I also love hearing about how this feels for others (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

Posted 1 Month Ago


h d e rushin

4 Weeks Ago

Dickinson wrote" I work in my prison
and make guest (poems)
.. read more
barleygirl

4 Weeks Ago

I agree, I am in a prison of my own making, in many regards, but it works better than the other pris.. read more
yes ... so many have lost a year to this Covid crapola says i! lots of imaging and metaphor ..had to read several times to try and soak it all up; but the angst is clear and present .. fed up is pretty accurate a description as any for most people .. referencing the "almighty mask" the "bricks I had to throw at the BLM protests" .. a subject that deserves reams and reams of paper says i! ... but for me this much larger underlaying issue brought to my mind with
" Oh fellow
poets of gas ovens and running exhaust pipes. Earthlings of the
overdose and the sharp filet knife. Give in to red sweaters" the issue seems so ignored and even denied and at this point we have no idea what the scope of mental/emotional illnesses are and will afflict us .. especially the youth .. there is so much of this "lockdown" that stinks ... not just for the inconvenience and loss of jobs and economies .. but how we so quickly shut ourselves down .. how un-natural this "virus" is working .. and the timing of it .. all concerns says i! i think more than ever we have become the "Nation of Sheep" William Lederer wrote of so long ago but still incredibly relevant .. in my opinion of course ;) strong write Dana! you covered a lot of territory in just 9 verses ..most of them triplets ..powerful hard hitting imaging and personifications says i .. and brutal honesty .. thanks for sharing :)
E.

Posted 1 Month Ago


h d e rushin

4 Weeks Ago

after Covid, the burials, the grief, the possibilities that there just may not be a God at all who h.. read more
Einstein Noodle

4 Weeks Ago

oh it is God i turn to (like many) especially more during the troubles ... stiff necked we are to ig.. read more
the pandemic sure has changed how we look at things now.
Love is different...spirits hide behind masks...and the poets of gas ovens like Plath or of exhaust pipes, like Sexton.
Boogaloo down Broadway when you can do it with a partner...that is coming to a theater near you, but when? Who knows...2020 disappeared like it came in...a year lost...a year when day just blended into the next. Your descriptions take me places that sometimes are hard to go...but then, the grim truth is never pretty.
excellent work, dana.
j.

Posted 1 Month Ago


h d e rushin

1 Month Ago

sometimes I get up on that soapbox which is more like a ledge.....thank you my friend....dana
How to write of the agony of how to co.exist with the cruelty of such a life, the small becoming so great, the giant becoming almost meaningless because it numbs the senses. Dear God, this write cuts deep, Dana, how visual the moments, sensations, the immense undignified minutiae. The horror and courage

Posted 1 Month Ago


h d e rushin

1 Month Ago

thank you dearest for stopping by.....with insight, justice and self examination...dana

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Added on April 6, 2021
Last Updated on April 6, 2021

Author

h d e rushin
h d e rushin

detroit, MI



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black american poet living in detroit. more..

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