More Than I Needed Anything
Poem + Prompt + A Big Thanks!
More Than I Needed Anything
Last night, I needed sleep more than I needed air, more than I needed anything, or that is what I thought all day, counting the hours to dark, which I spent awake, as life would have it, listening for little shifts in the ocean of my son’s breathing, the sounds before the wave of vomit, again. I am an excellent listener. My son asks, “Why do I always start throwing up right after you walk in my room?” (Causality, darling, is as murky as puke.) I do not know where energy comes from, how my body, ragged from months of pain, keeps going for my kids. I do not know where love comes from, only that it’s umbilical— our primal source of air, water in which we whooshed before the cold shock of this world set in. And so, when I listen, to my boy’s breathing, I do not hear my body screaming for sleep, I hear a pulse— one we share. I hear the way night wraps amniotic, shelters us together in its hum. I hear that I need to sit on the edge of a twin-sized bed, rub a tiny spine, whisper soothing words, then rinse the bowl again again again.
The Prompt (plus a big thank you)
I wrote this poem two days ago, inspired by a recent prompt from Petra Hernandez (“listen”). If you read my post from last week, then you know that “listen” also happens to be the most recent prompt that I offered here. It was a fun challenge to write a second (actually, third) poem around that theme, listen, in such a short span of time. I read this poem aloud yesterday at the reading and open mic that LeeAnn Pickrell and I hosted for Substack poets—not because it’s my best work but simply because it’s my newest, and I’m trying to softly accept the fear I feel about reading aloud in front of a group . . . and then flout it by reading anyway. I can’t imagine a better group to have practiced this with! I’m blown away not just by the talent and creativity but also by the warmth and generosity of the poets here on Substack. Thank you to everyone who attended and held that warm, open space, and a special thanks to the wonderful readers and open mic participants—MK Creel, Sam Aureli, Dick Whyte, Jonathan Potter, 26thAvenuePoet (Elizabeth), Denise T Drapeau, Ann Collins, Melanie Bettinelli, and Rosemary DeSena!
On to a prompt for today, in case you’re feeling playful . . . the poem I shared above was inspired by a moment in which I didn’t feel the thing I expected to feel. I was beyond exhausted even before I went into my all-night vigil with my barfing son. And so if you had told me a few hours prior that I would spend almost the whole night awake with him, I would have imagined myself feeling even more exhaustion and perhaps a hefty dose of self-pity (alongside the pity I’d obviously feel for my child). But above all else, what I felt was the desire to be right there with him, to make the experience easier for him in whatever way I could, to make sure that all of his misery was wrapped in love. The experience felt more sacred than exhausting, which is, I know, a strange way to describe a night spent cleaning up bodily fluids.
Perhaps you’ve experienced a time or two (or two thousand) in which your emotions in a given moment didn’t match what you would have expected to feel? A time, perhaps, when you were enraged and surprised by your own anger? Or a time when you expected to feel anger and felt something else instead? Can you recall a moment of intense emotional resistance when, quite suddenly, you entered a state of surrender instead? Or a moment that, on the surface, seemed like it should be easy, but instead it called up some hidden insecurity, and you felt disoriented by your own response?
Take a moment to recall one of these experiences with as much depth as you can. What was happening around you? What was happening inside you? What were the sights, sounds, smells, tastes, textures of the experience? You might write a narrative poem that tells the full story—but you don’t have to. Perhaps there is some seemingly minor detail of the experience—the quality of light in the room, a memorable fragrance, a particular action you took or didn’t take, your relationship with a certain emotion—that tugs at you now. Go where the tug is. Let your interest guide you.
One of the things that always delights me in a gathering of poets like the one we had yesterday is the realization (again and again and again) that there are as many voices as there are poets and that each of those voices is gorgeous and compelling in its own particular way. There is no “right” or “best” kind of poem, just like there is no “right” or “best” kind of tree or painting or song. All you need to do is write your kind of poem—one that expresses your experience or longings or creativity. One, perhaps, that stretches your experience or longings or creativity, so that you grow with the poem—I mean, if you’re into that. If you would like to write what you share, I would be delighted to read it! Your comments, reflections, and poems always feel like such gifts. Thank you for being here!
As much as I love writing these poems and posts, my debut novel, All Is Well, is still my favorite thing I’ve written—probably because I had so much fun writing it, and in many ways, the process rewrote me. You can learn more about it by clicking on the image below. If you read it, reach out! I’d love to hear about your experience.
Coincidentally, I’ve been working on a poem about a feeling I can’t seem to shake, a weight that refuses to lift. A couple of weeks ago, I met a very important deadline at work, just barely, as is often the case in real estate development. But instead of feeling the thrill of victory or the satisfaction of seeing the project through, this time was different. I felt different. It didn’t feel like winning. It felt as though I had lost something of myself along the way, and instead of moving forward, I find myself wanting to go back and search for it. It’s difficult to explain. Perhaps I've been spending too much time with the birds!
Your poem, as beautiful as it was read aloud, is so moving on the page, and I'm glad for the opportunity to read it again. As a mom, I was there with you have endured many sleepless nights of my own, as we all do. Thank you for sharing this work and your process although I would argue, as you said, perhaps this, too, is your "best." It surely gives all the feels. Thank you for your encouraging words and for the thought-provoking prompt as well. I will sit with that awhile. :)