National Writing Month Poem 1: Sickness
the g train full of hipsters getting off in dangerous neighborhoods
in the hope it might be the perfect fit, the skinny jeans of their dreams.
My stomach a warzone, ready to explode. Yesterday morning,
in Greenpoint, there was a blast. We could feel it under our feet
in the house, the ground shook, fire engines raced down the quiet street
I live on. I read this morning that the sound was a factory exploding
and the map lead me to my block, two blocks down. Last night,
I retched into the street and when I thought I was done, more sickness
wormed its way through my mouth, between my fingers, down my shirt.
Embarassed, I apologized to my lover but he didn’t mind, though he hates
throw up, all kinds. I lay sick in bed for hours, waiting for the next time,
listing all of the things I ate today, yesterday, before then, searching
for the ingredient, the substance, making me ill. I decided not to feel.
