I could fit your love
in the palm of my hand
like a videogame
a child plays in the backseat
of the car, when going
somewhere too far
When the batteries run low
I could throw your love
into the sea, recycle it
or abandon it in that backseat.
I could give your love
I could tie your love to my
wrist, like a balloon not meant
to be released, I could send your
love an RSVP, could blow
your love a kiss, if I could see
But where is this love,
when I need it?
Can I do something with it?
What is this love, after all
if not free to do it's own thing,
play hide and to seek all morning,
leaving me wondering.
You’re an uncontrollable poem,
Incorrigible and at home
on the dark side.
I didn't invite you to write you.
You showed up rowdy, late,
making mistakes all over
You are an atrocity, a monstrosity of modern poetry.
PS I love you.
No to swimming with dolphins, sharks
or spring breakers. No to spray tans.
Yes to knee deep in midnight lagoons.
Blue moons and bluer martinis.
No to mushrooms, beets and oatmeal.
No to the sound of hurricanes, ringtones and gunfire. No to drunk young guys in bars who tell the same stories over and over.
Yes to listening to 95 year olds who do the
same thing. Yes to 95-year-olds who need
to be seen. Who do the same thing. Who do
the same thing. Over and over.
Yes to making it to 95 years old and older.
No to the radio station playing Sinatra on Sundays like it's 1945 and Zelda Fitzgerald
is still alive. No to the fire that claimed her and her fabulous slipper. No to F. Scott and no to Ted Hughes, but yes to Sylvia, yes to the muse and
To the ghost of every dead poet who was forced to sleep within hospital walls. No to the hospitals that got it wrong mistaking sadness for sickness, prescribing chemicals not watercolors or spontaneous afternoon dancing.
No to a world that bullies, imprisons, censors, cancels, or refuses to listen.
No to TikTok trends, to your ex's Instagram and your ex's Facebook friends,
no to expensive dinners and yes to boxed
No to settling for second best, to accepting abuse, to fake breasts and lottery winners
who don't immediately buy laundry soap,
comfortable pajamas and lemon meringue pie for every single mother inside
the nearest Dollar General.
Yes to a pair of last Summer's sandals.
No to breaking them in, in the February rain.
Yes to the banana yellow car who splashed me hard as he turned the corner,
making me feel alive again.
Amanda enjoys chaotic forms of poetry including French Descort/Occitan, experimental artistic writing, found poems, list poems, and poems that might not even be poems. She enjoys creating art that's not traditional art such as graffiti and sand castle sculpture competitions. She lives in Florida with her young children and works in the hospitality industry. She has no public social media but can be reached at AmandaWynnAgain@gmail.com