Once I am right, I will really write.
Maybe I am writing now.
I am ill with a lie told as truth
and a truth that I wish was a lie.
And me, a woman who rarely asks, “Why?”
is asking, “Why?”
Fear has kept me from writing right.
All of my words,
Appearing flowery with love but smell sour – almost putrid.
Tonight, I said I hated my words, but I don’t really hate –
Not my words, not myself and not you.
With two hours of tears in my rear view mirror,
While I cannot see through eyes nearly swollen shut,
I see more than I saw before I shed the first tear.
So, perhaps I am righting my writing
as I write about making the wrong, right.
I wish I may, I wish I might
Urge this swollen vision to move into light.
And me, this woman who rarely asks, “Why?”
is not asking, “Why?” now.
And this was the answer to righting my write.
And finally, to the night and to the wrong,
It is right.
As it should be.
Now, two truths and a lie:
- There is no way around it, only through it
- This too shall pass
- I am wearing a couch dress for ORT’s Business Leaders Lunch