Drafts Are Poems Too
Bring what's messy into the light
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It’s nearing the end of National Poetry Month, and there have been past years I’ve written 30 poems in 30 days and others where I’ve written absolutely nothing. This month, I walked away with four drafts, two of which I hope to shift into finished poems or essays.
We rarely get to see the middle and messy in writing. We see the finished product. So let’s bring the messy into the light. I want to show you these drafts and chat about my thought process behind editing. These were written in Undercurrent with
, a workshop I highly recommend to any writer.Opposite of Ease
If you talk about it too much, you’re a killjoy.
If you don’t talk about it enough, you’re faking it.
The blood work comes back normal. Again.
They say I am so lucky to be able to stay home
all the time. But I dare you to try fatigue on,
dress up in chest pain, and do a face full
of palpitations and tell me you won’t
want to change immediately.
I am now the mayor of Bummer Town,
appointed by all my friends
who’ve had to hear about the time
my heart almost stopped.
I don’t mean to talk about it
So much. But I do.
Do you want to test drive a body
that could crash into itself
at a moment’s notice?
If you Google it, you’re overreacting.
When you call the doctor to ask
“Is this normal?” They say you
should go to the hospital, you think
to yourself, “But this isn't as bad
as last time.” The last time was
too close of a call. So you go. Again.
I dare you to Google “shower chair”
and find something that goes
with your interior design style.
In this liminal space,
Not quite healthy, but not
always sick. Always on the threshold.
A body’s glitch, a hectic day, and
whatever the opposite of ease is
comes to say hello.
It’s not often I write a poem that feels finished in workshop, but this one comes pretty damn close. I haven’t written much poetry about my experience with chronic illness, but I felt an invitation to explore this further. There are so many misconceptions about chronic illness, and I honestly think this draft could go on forever, but this does actually feel pretty close to a finished poem. I will let it sit for a while and return to it after I give it some breathing room.
Crusted on the Counter
I added the lemon juice to the soup for brightness and ladled our servings into bowls. We’ve been silent or scratching against the chalkboard of one another, but we finally have a moment to sit down for dinner. A couple of bites in, we check in and I ask, “Is there anything I can do this week that would help you feel supported?”
We both know you do the dishes the most because the OCD monster in my brain tells me wet food is the devil, but cooking is my church, so you show up for me. You say, “Do you think you could clean up a little more as you go?”
I get it from my mother. I close my eyes and can see the red box instructions clear as day. Brown beef in a 10-inch skillet over medium-high heat for 7 minutes, breaking up and stirring. Drain. Return meat to skillet. Stir hot water, milk, 1 pouch Sauce Mix and 1 pouch Pasta. Heat to boiling. Reduce heat. Cover. Simmer about 10 minutes, stirring occasionally until pasta is tender, 8 or 9 minutes. Each wrapper and splatter crusted onto the counter two days later. The colander stacked up on the pan – the new leaning tower. My stomach still in knots from the on-sale beef we had to eat to survive.
I get it from my mother. Each meal was eaten, then forgotten until the bugs come – another personal hell. I used to tell myself at least the remnants meant I was full, which is what I tell him now. Sure, there are squeezed lemon peels still sitting in the juicer, and I always forget to put the lids back on the spice jars, but at least there’s proof we are full tonight.
He reminds me of the ants and I want to be supportive, so I tuck the red pepper we will use tomorrow into the Tupperware. Tonight there are leftovers, and I will remember to put them away. Just for you.
This poem was written toward the prompt, “Pick a recipe and teach it to us; teach it in the way it was taught to you.” I started by writing a recipe I know my heart–Hamburger Helper. I truly can close my eyes and see the back of the box clear as day, but the poem became something else. After writing down the recipe, I thought about a conversation with my partner about cleaning up after myself and remembered the kitchen I grew up in. I started writing toward how I grew up in a dirty home–a poor home. These experiences seep into my life now in how I interact with food and separate tasks with my partner, and that feels like the story that needs to be dug into here. Sure, I can write a recipe word-for-word without looking, but I don’t think it’s relevant to this poem. I’m interested in continuing this piece by picking the two apart and seeing what two (or more) poems live in this draft.
After I Hand My Mom the Book
after Tiana Clark
She won’t know what she’s holding. She won’t know how many truths I had to tell to get to these truths. I carve out the pieces of me I wanted to keep buried, but I thought myself an archeologist. If no one else will dig up the bruised bones of my family, who else will? After I hand my mom the book, she’ll read it. I wonder if the metaphor of it all will go over her head. The first time I showed her my work, she said, “At least you told the truth.” She doesn’t know those were half-truths – the truths I told to keep my belonging safe. Now, I am safe. No thanks to her, so I reluctantly hand her the book. After I hand my mom the book, I imagine running away – no context, only pages of triggers and stories. After I hand my mom the book, the biggest truth I have inside of me is that I hope we can sit down and talk about it. We tried it once in family therapy and it didn’t work then, so why would it now? But I can dream. My heart flutters at the idea of acknowledgment. I don’t need agreement at this point, just a nod of the head, a recognition of my side of things. After I hand her the book, the sharpest knife couldn’t cut the tension, but we sit in it. What I know to be true is when we keep ourselves hidden, we become shadows of ourselves. After I hand my mom the book, the sun comes out. We go outside. She smokes a cigarette. I can finally breathe.
Sometimes drafts are nothing more than a free write of what’s on my mind. I have a book coming out in August, and I talk a lot about my relationship with my mom. In the editing process, I’ve been grappling with whether I want to tell my mother about the book. In EMDR, I’ve been grappling with if I want a deeper relationship with her in the future. This draft will likely die in the cemetery of Google Drive, but it was cathartic to write. And that’s why I came to poetry in the first place. Not all drafts have to see the light of day. Sometimes they just feel good to write in the moment.
I hope you know drafts are poems and poems are drafts – until we decide they aren’t. Maybe they’ll make their way into other poems or essays, but they are messy and unfinished, which is okay. I want you to know that it is okay. These are my drafts. Want to share one of yours? Feel free to comment below.
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“While we welcome this temporary relief, we look forward to the judge ultimately preventing this rule from going into effect.” To stay current, follow PROMO, Lambda Legal, the ACLU, and SQSH.
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Love,
So delighted to read your drafts 🤍 they are so special. Can’t wait for the book!
beautiful work, as always Sam. ❤️🔥