deepundergroundpoetry.com

A word on footnotes

�
I run my fingers �
over the spines of her library, �
pull out books on fungi�
& feminism to name a few �
�
revel in the fact there is no dust �
lingering between her books; �
to be admired in a way �
how she devotes to their care. �
�
I pull out a poetry collection, �
flick through its pages �
�
recoil in horror as I find �
pages smothered in annotations, �
margins full of reading notes �
highlighted passages �
quotes underlined. �
�
Every anthology I own is perfect �
as the queer OCD gnome in me �
freaks out over order �
dog-eared pages, dirt, �
impurities on crisp, white sheets �
�
but it reaches me somehow. �
�
I think of myself �
how I strive so hard to be everything �
that addiction never sold me �
�
how I quite literally plunge a meat suit �
into the tangled weeds of lake living �
�
I tailor and hone and polish �
how I live, who I love, what I produce, �
never doing anything in half measures �
because I�ve got fuckers to prove wrong �
�
how disability changes you� �
it fucking changes you �
because you feel like a pot plant �
in a strange, static spot �
undeserving of human grace �
�
and lately, I�ve wanted to rip �
every book from my manicured shelf �
and tear out pages that found me �
so I can tack them to a beige wall �
to remind me when I cannot �
find myself �
�
I want to spit across stanzas �
as if they are epitaphs �
and look down on my grave �
knowing that my tenacity �
watered mournful flowers �
�
and I don�t want to die �
but in all honesty �
I�m not keen on living either �
�
because I don�t want to be pretty �
�
I want to be footnotes �
and feeling �
and ruin �
�
to make poetry a life �
�
�
�