A thread of events, I suppose.
Believing in myself?
Molting crayfish, I haven’t written poetry in a while,
I’ve forgotten the fire, I’ve forgotten the rage.
It’s too much to remember.
I’m pretty sure we remember to forget, not forget to remember.
As the old woman emerges in me, the convulsions shed old habits, dirty deeds,
Washing them clean.
But we are never clean. That is the blessing of being human.
Crayfish, or should I call you Crawdad?