Notes to Self: Clip 1

Kristen Lenea Ryberg

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NOTES TO SELF : Clip 1

You must go somewhere unfamiliar.
You could go to the Hot Dot Fish Shack
order the Fried Clam Platter 
while country music softshoes the room.
You must be satisfied with clams, stripped of their belly
the best part missing.
You must be the new girl again
in the bathroom, between classes
as the group whispers, sideway their eyes, giggle.
You must read poems with your un-plumped wrinkles.
You might smile at the too tight bed corners he carefully tucks.
He might smile at the peanut-butter inside the jelly.
You might tenderly place your hand on his glasses, notebooks left on the table.
He might not complain about wearing a snore-guard.
You might try to wrap the cheese like he likes.
You must remember and you must experience the fear of not being able to. 
You might be happy sweeping the house.
You must make art.
You must agree with the wind, water, earth.
You might lay on a mattress of moss in the woods.
You might try to speak with a crow.
You must go to sleep with the owl calling.
You will disappoint others, yourself.
You will save shells, or stones, or barbie dolls.
You might stop looking for something new.
You might save someone. 
You might make slippers from a sweater.
You must know loss.
You must love.
You might not affect change to the degree you thought you would.
You might plant willows and take muffins to the quiet single neighbor.
You might view the trash, yard-carpet, broken cars, dilapidated trailer, waving flag
equal to the New York performance artist who walked the street with a month’s worth of his trash pinned or strapped to his clothing. His neighbors complained 
of his unsightly terrace.
You might find the answer is to stop trying to hide it.
You might learn the art of gentling.