stickers from a cat magazine

susanthejournal:

The name of the next song is “I’m sorry but this is how I learn”
                                                                                  —Arthur Russell

          by CL Young

I have always been negligent with history
I am irresponsible
and will continue to fail
have yet to figure out how to regulate
my presence on the internet this is a concern
I am lucky to have
I realize it would not exist
if there were other problems
like no food or illness or children
still I do give more attention to sadness
than to technology
which is a balance I want to talk about
my dreams here but would be embarrassed
which is to say the blank
should be left to maintain itself
see the week has been quiet and long in solitude
like ribbons not of taffy or other candy
but of lace I think about the things I keep
a receipt is a paper ribbon dirty and foldable
this year I am meant not to remember
the color I take
when I am smashed into love
the space in my abdomen
filled by the act of stirring gravy
watching my grandmother sit
on chair folded down from her walker
her gravy stir hands knotted tree parts
more whisking than stirring
she is dead now I do that
will only let women into this poem
will only let women stir the gravy
the boys over for dinner the other night
me doing dishes in the kitchen
Catie this feels like the patriarchy
because they are worried and they should be
they do not realize these tasks
are the sacred ones
going to keep talking
because my lineage of men
has caused me not to question adding
so here I am
woman voice speaking when not spoken to
pouring forth in order to be anything
women have to make almost perfect themselves
they want to and I like that about them
but instead will try to show underbelly
in terms that might be understood
it is important that someone with a penis reads
this that if you are willing to devote time
to making a woman come
you might also try reading
I am saying there is a wound
I am saying the men in this family
give up they give the fuck up
leave us here to take care of each other
die in cars on the side of the highway
die in cars running in a closed garage
and we are here we are still here
around the table talking
women here just a little women here
lonesome lonesome we were born to be
but the act of dying is just an act
of transition between layers
so no body
under ground is really going to give a fuck
if I say once living
its laugh sounded
or you bastards were cowards
cowardice being nothing
but a choice
to miss
no heavens
but a distance
and we are nearing it
for me to tell you what it is like
is something
a ruin
a living
will

⁂
CL Young was born and lives currently in Colorado. Her poems can be found in GlitterMOB, PEN Poetry Series, Poor Claudia, Powder Keg, and elsewhere. She is from Boise, Idaho.