The Art of Letting Go

Before: a scrunched up forehead, 

Pursed lips and an aching grip. Poetry made me feel elderly

In body and mind. 

"It doesn't have to rhyme" she told me, 

Showing me her book of creased pages and melodic lines. 

I shook my head and sighed, a mumble, an exhale saying I 

Just.

Don't.

Get. 

It. 

She smiled, all buck-toothed and patient, you just need to let go. 

During: I'm packing

Everything I own into trash bags, stuffing them full

But my stomach feels too empty and my throat is dry.

GO he's saying, 

Not yelling but the word feels just as strong. 

My turquoise car with its partially flat tire and broken windshield wipers,

Now filled with my worldly belongings. 

The boys in the kitchen

Playing some card game with rules I can't remember

Aren't allowed to hear me say goodbye.

I drive away. 

After: fingers shaking, my forehead still scrunched 

But now I am not weak,

I am fire. 

And the words I write don't have to rhyme,

Or make sense,

Or even finish a story. Because I am writing for me, to make sense of everything I need to 

let go. 

And it spills out like milk out of a carton

And my stomach feels full again.