Scribbling

Insomnia last night, still coughing myself awake, head exploding from pressure in the sinuses. Sent an email to my doc, and she’s hauling out the big guns: steroid nasal sprays. Two of them. I’ll get well if it kills me.

Watching dawn flash back at itself on tall glass buildings downtown, I blessed all the artists, all the girls and women in rooms receiving the light of a new day. Or living in their cars, or in tents. Women whose names we will never hear unless they go mad or try to kill somebody. They come to this planet wanting to make a contribution, leave a mark. Not just children or jobs dispensing coffee and McMuffins, but something more lasting. Scolded for wasting their time. Too emotional, not creative, not rational. Words reserved for their fathers, husbands, sons. Or for the rich. 

They keep on bleeding regularly and cramping, or maybe they are past bleeding or never knew it. They wake to another dawn like this one, pens in their hands or a crayon, yearning to affirm they are more than tits and ass, free labor for the empire, wombs for people whose names we will never hear unless they go mad. Some of these women sit by their windows at dawn, seizing a moment to themselves, scribbling in journals or on the backs of envelopes. Songs or poems they will later toss in the bin, a contribution. I sit here scribbling.