You know the gnaw

Are you making — making something, making it through?

I’m still writing through the pandemic, this season of outer quiet and inner scream. Some days the words rush in and I am arms open, catching rain. Other days, words — like me — are sluggish and stumped.

So I hunt through magazines, novels, recipes and mail, finding words that call, then stringing the misfits together to make new sense. This is the cut-up, or collage, poem — one of my favorite ways to plumb the mysteries of meaning. It tenders comfort, discovery, and great relief.

Tell me, what do you do when you can’t find the words? Do you have tricks or prayers or special potions to summon the creative rush?

Threading my arm through yours

I’m trying to stay cracked

open because you can’t

go wrong with tenderness

I’m finding something new to want

because you know meanings

inside of meanings

You are calculating

the weight of plums

the myth of marigolds

the changing weather

You know the gnaw

of things we

can’t understand

What we feel now, is it

a memory of remembering?

— Drew Myron