Poem: Vertigo

So, I write poetry. Yeah, I know, it's such a cliche to write terrible poetry, but I just can't help myself. I haven't written in a long, long time, though; perhaps because of the whole pregnancy/newborn/stay-at-home mom situation. But what kind of excuse is that? Poets have been writing since language first became written down, and they've written during wartime, from prison cells, while trekking through the wilderness, and yes, even while staying at home with the kiddies. No more excuses for me, I guess.

But while I try to revive my motivation to write, I'll stoke the creative fires by posting some older poems. This one, called "vertigo", I wrote in summer of 2005, a couple of months after first meeting the man who would become my husband.

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"vertigo"
(on finding myself disoriented after you leave)

i am...
unsettled.
things are different, now.
a little bit off.
unrecognizable.

it is as if a stranger
has been in my house.
i cannot describe what has been
moved, or taken, or shifted, but--
things have changed.

at night i sleep fitfully,
pillows too warm and
mattress too soft,
unable to get comfortable
in my own bed.

i am often hungry... and
just as often cannot seem to find
my appetite.
i thirst for something.
anything.

my mind circles around
this strangeness inside me,
pushing and pulling at its fabric,
trying to make this new thing
comfortable, familiar.

even then, here on my bed is
an imprint, this space
in the shape of you...
and me trying to
pour myself into it.

© MSE, 28-08-2005