Will it make all the difference?

I've always detested Robert Frost. Standing at a fork in the road, poetically rambling about his indecisiveness.

Decide already. Left. Right. It doesn't matter, just do it.

But I'm standing at a fork in the road. And I'm poetically rambling, even if only in my own head, about my indecisiveness. And there is this pale rope around me, and it's pulling me in one direction. And that rope feels wonderful. And rough. And comforting. And frightening.

Dialogue with Understanding

You say I am repeating
Something I have said before. I shall say it again.
Shall I say it again? In order to arrive there,
To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not,
You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.
In order to arrive at what you do not know
You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.
In order to possess what you do not possess
You must go by the way of dispossession.
In order to arrive at what you are not
You must go through the way in which you are not.
And what you do not know is the only thing you know
And what you own is what you do not own
And where you are is where you are not.

From T.S. Eliot, East Coker.

Self

I'm wearing a body that isn't my own.
I'm thinking thoughts I finished before.
I'm in this place again.

I'm done here, for now.
I'm too open, soft.
I'm pierced with no regard.

I'm losing ground.
I'm deep in sleep.
I'm unable to resist.

I'm endless, intolerable, choking need.
I'm loathsome.

Foreshadowing

I told him that I like hydrangeas
Big bloomy bushes of blue or pink
I like them because they aren't common
No hustler roses, no vague lilies
They were my grandmother's flowers, hydrangeas
What I neglected to say is that they smell of loss and death and things left unsaid.

Wear it like bones, like skin

A man sent this poem to me once. Long ago. He said it captured me exactly. I'll let you decide.

I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what's underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I'm the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I'll pull that garment
from its hanger like I'm choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I'll wear it like bones, like skin,
it'll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.

by Kim Addonizio