Anyone who has ever experienced a physical, emotional, or mental wearing down–a sort of spiritual Indian rug burn, if you will–will know the feeling I’m describing in this poem. But I’m not talking about superficial wounds, really. This poem is about the intangible ones that erode into us, harsh and unyielding, leaving a mark.
sandpaper
scrape, scrape down
through the grain,
through the meat,
I feel the rub
faster and faster
grinding all away,
rough, thick, gritty,
a red heat rises
blossoming, burning,
trail blazing deeper,
leaving only a dry
dust in it’s wake
how far down below
can it corrode? where,
when will it end,
fresh scars blooming?
or, after the gray dust
settles, blows away,
will there be, instead,
nothing left of me?
I've never really liked labels, I am this, I am that. But in the interest of introducing myself, I can say that I am many things: nurse, writer, photographer, poet, painter, gardener, friend, armchair philosopher, counselor, nature lover, home makeover aficionado, movie buff, practicing yogi, and aspiring world traveler. I think that's a pretty good list for now. I want to become a bigger part of the vital, creative force I feel deeply at work in the world and connect with other people who want to do the same.
Jacqlyn Thorne 