NOTES TO SELF CLIP #1

Kristen Lenea Ryberg

notes to self clip #1

You must go somewhere unfamiliar.
You could go to the Hot Dot Fish Shack
order the Fried Clam Platter
as country music soft-shoes 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 sideway their eyes, giggle.
You must go back to work with your un-plumped wrinkles.

You might smile at the too tight bed corners he carefully tucks.
He might smile at the untucked corners each morning.
You might tenderly place your hand on his glasses, 
papers left on the table.

You must remember
and you must experience forgetting.
You might be happy sweeping the house.
You must make art.
You might lay on moss and try to speak with crows.
You must sleep with the owl’s waking call.

You will disappoint others, yourself. 
You will save feathers, or stones, barbie dolls.
You might stop shopping for something new.
You might save someone.
 
You might make slippers from a sweater.
You must know loss.
You must love.

You might be entangled by the umbilical of destructive
complicity you inhabit, tear it off like a girdle
howling.
You will not affect change to the degree you thought you would.

You might view the trash, yard-carpet, junk cars, waving flag 
in the holler, equal to the New York artist who wore a month’s worth 
of his trash 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.