I am not afraid of bees or wasps or flies or other things that sting and bite no, the thing that fills my heart with fear is the elusive buzzing in my ear that whispers: what if what if what if
anxiety
Haunted
My house is haunted by a little girl, a waist-length tangle of brown hair, and wide eyes the colour of an angry ocean. Her mother tells stories about those eyes: lids thrown like blinds from the moment she was born, greedy for light and life, tricking the nurses into adding hours to her age. I feel those eyes upon me a lot these days. No one else knows that she is here, but in those rare twilight moments when I am permitted my own company she follows me with questions: Where am I? she asks me, and: tell me a story, and: remember when? I don't know, I tell her, and: I don't know any, and: not anymore. Then she clenches her fists, her tiny body rocking with disappointment and rage. You lost me, she accuses. Maybe, I say. Bring me home, she pleads. How? I ask, even though I know the steps to this waltz, can see the circles worn into the floorboards and feel them in the soles of my feet. Open your eyes, she says. I am. Where is your wonder? Your awe? I gave them away, I tell her. So find more. I shake my head. Open your eyes. They are open! But all I can see is pain and fear and suffering and emptiness and death. Open them wider. It hurts. They cannot open as wide as yours. Be brave. I am not. Tell me a story. My eyes flicker to the bookshelf and the books I can no longer open. To long-expired daydreams left to curdle and rot. How do I tell the girl who loved nothing more than stories that I am too afraid to navigate them? Be brave, she says, but she has never choked on the words of a page, never drowned in the images of a screen. She has yet to learn that she is not the hero. That sometimes the hero leaves people behind. That you don't know until you turn the page who will be lost and who will be left to mourn them. And so she can't understand why I cannot turn the page. Please, she begs. Please, I echo. My house is haunted by a little girl whose greedy eyes, wide and angry like the ocean, devoured so much she forgot how to close them, and became a woman who could only look away. @amnotpoetry
Before and After
Before the pandemic I attended community potlucks. I folded my anxiety into a handkerchief, something to fiddle with in my pocket, as I planted the seeds of friendship. After the pandemic the potlucks were cancelled. Some members came out anti-science and my seeds have all failed to yield anything more than broken confidence. Before the pandemic I made my first ever parent friends. We met at the park most mornings, shared meals once a week, and took turns filling oxygen tanks. After the pandemic the housing market got so hot they left the country to cool down. Parks and tanks are left empty now and my lungs are learning to adapt. Before the pandemic we had library and market days. Familiar places, friendly faces, comforting routine and connection. A safety net of welcome and belonging. After the pandemic we found desks, stalls, and smiles vacant. I stretch my anxiety around my neck, a scarf to protect against the chill, and let my husband do the talking. Before the pandemic I didn't have many friends to talk to, but I called my Granny every day. After the pandemic I watched her get sick. Her number doesn't reach her anymore. Before the pandemic panic attacked once or twice a year. After the pandemic it has learned to hunt in packs. Before the pandemic nausea, dizziness and pain meant I was coming down with something. After the pandemic they mean that I am awake. Before the pandemic my husband and I talked about growing old together. After the pandemic he wonders if I'll make it through the week. Before the pandemic I believed in a future. After the pandemic. After the pandemic. When is After the pandemic? Before the pandemic there was no Before or After. Before the pandemic I didn't need to wait for an ending to begin. Before the pandemic is gone. And all we have to work with is now. At least that much hasn't changed.
**Author’s Note**
If you want to check out the visual version of this poem and a lot of other poems that haven’t made it on the blog yet, make sure to check out my Instagram account @amnotpoetry.
Why I only have panic attacks after the kids are in bed.
I dive so deeply into days
flooded with motherhood
eyes closed
breath held
that by the time I surface
the dusky light burns my eyes
silence pierces my ears
and my atrophied lungs stutter
starved for oxygen
I tell them to pace themselves
but they are ravenous
in out in out in out
until I am drowning in rest
Creative Process
My creative process
is a bomb defusal
in a crowded room
where the people
keep wandering by
to peek over my shoulder.
My mother cringes
as I touch the red wire,
so I drop the pliers
and pick up a screwdriver.
Left, left, left —
until the screw wiggles
and I hear my old professors
sigh in unison
— right, right, right.
I pore through the pages
of a tear-stained manual
but can’t concentrate
amidst the impatient chatter
of an Instagram following.
I press a button on a whim
and brace myself.
A gasp. A cry.
But nothing happens.
For a moment
I think this might be luck,
but as the voices die
I hear it in the silence:
tick, tick, tick.
The trickle of time running out.
I check the manual.
There is a whisper.
I whip the book to the floor.
A muffled clatter.
A tut and a groan.
I pick it up again
and get back to work.
Tomorrow
My every day is balanced
on the knife point
of panic.
Tonight I lost my voice,
my words refusing to file
neatly in line,
rushing so quickly
that they caught in my throat,
my breath trampled beneath them.
My husband found me
on the floor
drowning in a scream
so vast that it left me
silent.
I am not okay.
Life is a trap:
just when I think
I’ve got the knack
of shrinking myself
a little bit smaller,
the walls close in
a little bit tighter.
And maybe the daylight
will make things look
a little bit brighter,
a little bit wider,
but I am not ready
to surrender today
to get to tomorrow.
So I guess this is me
tearing up my white flag,
claiming victory
with the words that sought
to suffocate me:
I am not okay.
I am tired.
I am angry.
I am grieving.
I am afraid of tomorrow.
But tomorrow will come.
I think I am ready now.
A Conversation (Hyperlink Poem)
(Click each blue response to see the truth.)
Some Days
Some days
I give so much of my love away
that I forget to leave any
for myself.
Some days
I give so much of myself away
that I become a walking
human-shaped absence,
defined
only by the space
of where other people are not.
Some days
I have no one to give to
and in that freedom I expand
so far
that I lose
all
cohesiveness.
Some days
I cannot remember who I am
only all of the things I should do
and all of the things I have failed to do.
Some days
I make lists about myself
so that I cannot forget:
what I’ve done,
what I like,
what I want.
Some days
I look at those lists
and wonder
where that person went.
Some days
I am certain
that some crucial part of me
has died
taking with it:
memories
and dreams
and desires
and
and
and
Some days
I want to be struck by lightning —
not to die,
but on the off chance
that I might reanimate.
Or at least
feel that rush of electricity
down my spine.
Some days
I can pretend that I’m okay,
end this on a note about
hope.
Some days
I give so much of my love away
that I forget to leave any
for myself.
Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash
Amy Notdorft 