Dear Beyond,

Thank you, but for some reason, when it comes to poetry, it’s all swirling fog & marble moon. No idea why. Actually, I do have an idea. It’s sad, but I’m not a romantic, like, at all. It takes all my energy (plus antidepressants) not to be swallowed up by a pragmatic hole of cynicism & pessimism.

I think maybe it takes a certain amount of hope to write poetry, even Sylvia Plath or e.e. cummings poetry.

Or, it’s like when I play Scrabble. As erudite as I am in life & on paper, when it comes to that game, I can only think in 3 & 4 letter words, & simple ones at that, too. Damn. Home. Cat.

So, what rhymes with tree? And then make up a whole story in a few lines? My mind bungee-jumpes from my brain into the dogs’ water dish.

As you can see, I need a whole lotta elbow room.

Writer and storyteller, immigrant, wife, mom, knitter, collector of jokes, lover of cheap, sweet wine.

Writer and storyteller, immigrant, wife, mom, knitter, collector of jokes, lover of cheap, sweet wine.