After Matthew Olzmann
So here’s what I’ve got, the reasons why I still write poetry, despite being an unproductive poet most days: Because even if my marriage went south, I reread Matthew Olzmann’s single-Mountain-Dew love poem and cry white jasmines every time. Because capitalism urges me to “create more content!” but living is art in practice, my mentor said. After living, my heart craves coming home to a clean page. Because light feels sweet and foreign raining from my fingers when I write about my daughter. Because Kim Addonizio is still a hot queen at 70, so is Nikki Giovanni. Half of the best people in my life are female writers. Never mind that we’re gonna die not famous. Because the men painted my cowrie charcoal with violent hands, but every poem means I am now holding the brush. Because at 19, when I shoved a mountain of pills in my mouth and woke up the next day in a rage that I was still breathing, I thought first of writing rather than calling anyone. I still haven’t dialed, but I kept myself busy with poems than with nooses. Because when I drift off from Valproic, I dream about oaring featherlight across an ocean of words. In the dream, I am telling my mother I don’t have a car, the white coat, a few extra hundreds in my account, but it’s fine – I am still rowing. At the edge of the water, my stepdad claps. I can’t get to him, but these words can. Because every day, I look at how vast the ocean is, the mountain of pills smaller in my palm, the way familiar houses grow smaller as you drive away, and I end up saying, yeah, I still want to row.
This piece was first published in Anti-Heroic Chic on December 3, 2024.
