When I was a child I carved my name in the sand with my toes.

Later, I wrote tortured poetry, reams of the stuff.

It saved me.

In my twenties I was a musician,

and songs rose up and through me like tides,

like hunger,

like blushes.

In my thirties, I wrote press releases in Silicon Valley

and was very handsomely paid

thank you.

Now in my forties, I just write.

Emails to teachers, status updates, blogs,

and pages and pages of the unpublished novel of course.

Words are my common-thread, they are my signifiers.

Words are the bones of me.

And it only makes sense that someday,

what will remain are a few choice ones carved on a rock,

although my preference would be a tree.

2 thoughts on “Words

  1. Sara, today I received a copy of a book I wrote TWENTY years ago. It was a collection of poetry I’d written. My mum sent me photocopies of all the pages. I cringed reading it…so personal, so private. It was like reading someone’s secret diary. So, your words ‘tortured poetry’ made me smile. I know what you mean!


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