A poem

Well, it is always awkward for me to write about myself and self-promote, but I am honored to have my poem I am. Still. featured in the on-line literary magazine Literary Mama. This issue's topic is "Desiring Motherhood," a topic close to so many of our hearts.

Someone asked me about where the poem came from and I usually do not talk about my process for writing, but I thought it might be interesting. And well, this is my blog and it is here for just this sort of thing. This poem I wrote in January, about a month after my daughter died. I had just sort of returned to the hell that is social networking, mainly for the distraction of scr.abble. Because I had decided to keep my profile active, I also had to deal with the aftermath of posting a shitload of status updates about my pregnancy...so, I announced my loss in a note. I got appropriate condolences, but mostly people ignored it and kept playing far.mtown or whatever else they do on that site besides scrab.ble. So, besides my mass email to all friends and family I could think of, I announced Lucy's death to the other people this way. In January, I received an email from one of those old flames in my life that pops up suddenly because you have a fb account. Though our flame has not been lit for a long time, we have had a nice little rapport in which we harmlessly flirt here and there in the midst of talking about our kids, our spouses and our lives. And by flirt, I mean, mostly it is a compliment thrown in between newsy type stuff. At any rate, he sent nothing after the death of my daughter, despite receiving my loss notification in both email and on this site. Then one day, a month after my second daughter died, he just sent me an email like nothing happened.

I was livid.

Maybe it was because we had dated briefly and I felt comfortable telling him off, or maybe I was just in a place where I didn't give a crap. I didn't stop the anger. The email began, "So, do you know who I am now? I am a woman whose daughter died. I listen to the same song over and over. I paint depressing pictures. I wallow. I don't want to flirt. I don't want to hear how beautiful I am. I don't want to make small talk. I just want you to acknowledge my daughter's death. I am not that girl who wore your letter sweater once upon a time. I am an old woman whose daughter died."

He responded with an appropriate condolence. But what I realized is that I really wrote my letter to the world. This poem is one I did not continually tweak for months. I wrote it and let it stew. A few weeks later, I pared it down significantly, and sent it out. There wasn't a great deal of editorial work, like some of my poetry that I have literally edited for a decade. The process of editing my emotions in poetry is incredibly cathartic--it is like dissecting my feelings and cutting them apart into meaningful phrases. It is like painting a beautiful picture with an ugly color, if that makes sense. So, when I am working on a poem, I am less emotional, but more precise about my feelings. More deliberate. In this poem, it was almost as though I had to write these statements and emotions, then get them off my desk.

That is what this poem is about, in case anyone is interested. The other poetry in this issue is beautiful, so please go spread the love around Literary Mama.