November

I best not be driving anymore today.
I scared four people on the way to my daughter's school an hour late.
I wasn't speeding, only making poor choices.
Poor choices. The words echo.
Tired from late nights with my baby two in a row now.
As I lay with his fevered head against my chest,
I noticed the contrast from the feeling of cold-
her dead head against me.
Twelve years ago on that very night.
And I marvel at how people I love come and go on this long, terrible night,
making a mental note to call my friend,
to wish her a blessed day of birth.
I want to hug her more than anything,
and then I feel bad because it's more for me than her.
I said to her, "Is today your birthday?",
stupid, as if it isn't ingrained in my head by now,
but each year I have a bit of doubt...
maybe it wasn't on the EXACT same day that Luca went.
Listening to the same song over and over for two days
because I can pretend that it's being sung to me.
I send it to share with someone else who looked a little sad the other night.
Misery loves- needs? company.
That is the nature of November.
When all of the neighbors seem irritating or hostile,
and all I long to do is leave this place.
Even though the sun is finally shining this morning
I can't warm up because what he does chills me.
Habits are stronger than vows, I suppose.
Damn November. It was this time last year that I was missing him,
and wishing partly that I hadn't left.
If I could flush this month away-
but isn't it ironic that i need to call the plumber for the third time this month.
Everything at all levels is stuck,
and no one is going to fix anything so it really flows.
This baby is still here.
He holds on and needs me, so tearily, I breathe on.
I toast my toast and will myself to heat water for tea.
Thank you for the bread, Carolina. It is good like love.
Annoying, how poetry comes readily with sadness.
It might be a path to singing on a stage.
Is this really what I always wanted?
Then I shake my head but can't quite laugh,
as I know that it's not really good poetry.
Only the pitiful spiral that I am wound up in,
talking in riddles.