10 Reasons to Knit
1. Never have to buy a Christmas present — ever.
2. “I like your scarf!” “Thanks! I made it” (walks away feeling cool).
3. There are endless needle and yarn color and size combinations.
4. Makes watching TV seem more productive.
5. You can donate to charity (walks away feeling cool).
6. Start a Knitting Club — find fellowship over tea, cookies, yarn, and crafty gossip.
7. The clicking sound of needles is pretty therapeutic.
8. You could also stab someone with them if you really wanted to.
9. Sometimes you get calluses.
10. It’s a healthy form of procrastination, right? — okay…maybe I should stop knitting and do something else.
It’s funny how one day
she hums along to her CD,
and the next struggles to keep tears at bay
and cries at the same church key.
How he cringes
at a love song,
but then his heart unhinges
when he’s found someone to sing along.
Or how they danced
to that song on their night,
but by circumstance
shut off the radio with fright.
But also how they can find
freedom in keys and strings
playing pennies and dimes
on the road like kings.
How he does not feel
alone in the crowd
with that rock concert heal,
loud and endowed.
Or how she creates,
flowers and grows,
as beats resonate
Fall in after gnash - the broken hearts club
But while we were out one night listening to drums,
dancing and drinking sweet, sweet rum,
someone came up to me and asked me where I'm from,
their hair smelling like Bazooka bubble gum,
and I guess I succumbed...
'cause now I'm no longer a member of the Broken Hearts Club,
I no longer feel broken or numb,
but I guess you never know what's to come,
'cause I could become the newest member of the Broken Hearts Club.
Her closed eyes awake
and see heavy darkness,
submerged under a swirly surface.
Fighting for air her mouth exhales
stardust. Arms and legs
escape crescent moon shackles.
Yet dark whispers nestle
her heart and her ears.
Seeping energy frosts her skin.
Stretched fingers reaching, their voices howl
pleading the night. Glittering
dark liquid tumbles,
an outstretched golden cup.
A long sip, the waterfall
of black fire incinerates the demons,
clouds of curling ghosts.
she stands aglow
in the kitchen—
smiling over a cup of coffee.
“Isadora's book of poetry Lovesick has been climbing the charts of the New York Bestseller List.” Ellen said, speaking to the camera. Turning to me, she asked, “Could you tell us a little about your inspiration for this book?”
I made a heavy sigh and smiled. The audience laughed.
“When I was, I think 21, I met this guy—”
“Oh boy, here we go.” Ellen interrupted.
“—and he was a really great guy.” I said, tugging at the bottom of my Chanel dress, absentmindedly. “After dating him for almost two years, though, one day he started acting really strange. I came home from work and turns out he had cheated on me. I was so angry and upset. I eventually fell into depression. But then my therapist told me writing could help me sort through my feelings. So, that’s um, where this book came from.”
“So all of the poems are about this breakup?”
“Yes. It took me over a decade. Not only to write but to also get published.”
“Now I learned that that is also when you met your husband, am I right?” Ellen asked.
I smiled even wider, “Yes.” I said in a small voice.
The audience chuckled at my still apparent-girlish crush on my husband.
“I’d think we’d all like to hear that story.” Ellen said, touching my knee. I smelled her spicy cologne.
“Well, um, ya see, after being denied so many times I was ready to give up. But then I found this publishing company called Candle Press, and that’s where I met my husband, Edmund.”
“So this bad guy was actually a good thing?”
“Definitely. If you are watching, thank you for cheating on me. You put me through hell and back, but I’m all the better for it.”
With a sigh,
she pulls herself to her tiled chamber.
she turns to face her twin.
Tilting her head side to side,
she reaches up,
to run her fingertips along
the bumps and dips
on her forehead
and around her eyes.
But to her
her ridges rub like sandpaper,
She chews her tongue.
She mistakes the gray streaks
in her hair
her body like a rose
She hopes to wash away
her age in the shower.
Yet as she sat naked
on her bed
curling her arms around
her legs in a hug,
with her wet hair
caressing her back,
she felt like a siren
bathed in moonlight—
to have mastered the art
of luring men to sea.