Writing

Hope Is still My neighbour. She is building a table with her parents In the backyard.

I don’t want to, But I have to. There is a band of Tension Wrapped around my forehead. Poetry feels like an uninvited task. Another thing I have to do. Along with shopping, cleaning, taxes. Just like 911 in Manhattan. I don’t want to write, but I have to.

Tightness wraps around my head every night. Tears fill my eyes every morning. I wake before everyone else. I go outside with my coffee. For a few minutes, I listen to the birds. I pretend it is As it was. I cry before the children wake up.

We try. We made a colourful poster. 9:30am wake up. Get dressed. 10:30, breakfast. 11am, schoolwork. 12:30, lunch. 1:30, study time. 3pm, practice instruments. 3:30, outdoor time. We try. The kids are craving structure. They miss learning with people. They miss going to school.

Words press against the inside of my skull, With such intense pressure, It hurts. As if I always have to cry, But tears are not enough. The only way I can think of Relieving the pressure Is to write. Is there any other reason for poetry?

I have lost weight. I am not sleeping much. It is as if I have begun to Stop.