Twitter Poems [Mundane Things I Might or Have Tweeted About]

by Kathryn H. Ross


 

I.

they are trimming

the tree

across the street

in my

neighbor’s yard.

 

the whirring

of the saw

is boring into

my skull.

 

branches fall and

fall like

too-big leaves

and my car is

 

fenced in

between cones and

machinery.

 

(in other words):

 

there is

no

 

escape.

 

 

II.

you would think

that after

nearly

sixteen years

 

I’d be used

to cat vomit.

 

you’d think the smell

and

the sound

 

of my

little kitty’s stomach

lurching against

itself like a

brass 18th century

door knocker

wouldn’t phase me

 

after

all this

time.

 

but there she

goes—

back arched and

mouth wide

 

until a pile

of hair and

greasy

bile go

>> splat!<<

on the

linoleum

 

and I,

trembling,

am the

only

one home.

 

 

III.

often

the weight of

isolation

sits like

a ghost on

my back

 

whispers little

joyful things

like no one

will ever

want me or

love me because

no one has

ever really

wanted

or loved

me

 

often

the weight

settles itself around

my neck;

a noose that makes

the possibility of

companion

 

look just a little

beyond impossible

in my

cloudy eyes

 

I guess I’m

saying that

I want

to get married

but I

wouldn’t tweet that.

 

instead, I retweet

a screencap

of some obscure

90s anime

 

with a girl

who

doesn’t look

like me

crying

crystal tears and

lamenting:

 

[I’m so tired

of

being lonely]

 

and

at the top I’d

comment,

“mood.”

 

 

IV.

there’s a

white girl

at work

 

wearing a

dashiki.

 

even though I’m

pretty certain she

has no idea

what

it is or

what weight

it holds in the

multicolored

threads of its

fabric,

 

even though I’m

pretty certain she

just thought

it’s pretty and

maybe

quirky? vibrant?

holds a certain

je ne

sais quoi?

 

I can’t help but

feel a mixture

of

fatigue and

disbelief and

a little

hilarity

 

when I remember

my cousins

taking pictures

in the park

arms crossed against

their dashikis:

 

“Wakanda Forever!”

 

there was

pride

in their eyes

 

 

V.

I can’t wait

to see

my therapist.

 

I’d go

every week

if I

could

 

(but: money

and

the chorus

shouts: SAME.)

 

Fifty minutes

seem to

sprint past,

and fifty dollars

trickle into

nothing.

 

Update:

it was good

to

see my

therapist.

 

I tell the

voice

that whispers,

maybe she’s

tired

of how

you never get

any better?

(among other

things),

to

quiet down.

 

but it

doesn’t listen

so I

make another

appointment

and tweet about

how I

can’t wait

to

see her again.

 

 


Kathryn H. Ross is a recent grad and holds a BA and MA in English and Writing. More importantly, she adores cats, warm baths, and Daniel Radcliffe movies. Her work ranges from sentimental and absurd shorts to lamentation essays about living as a young black woman in America. Read her at speakthewritelanguage.com.