No rhyme, prose, rhythm. This April, National Poetry Month, has been a quiet one for me. I’ve written one what can be barely be called a poem and the one performance this month wasn’t really poetry either. I just haven’t been feeling it. The day to day has been clouding my inspiration. It feels hard to find beauty or the beauty of tragedy among the chores of mami’hood and my own poor attempts to keep it all together.
I’m not alone. So many of my rwoc friends and mamis also are struggling to segment their lives, dreams, visions, and losses into lines and stanzas. But the meter of their own daily struggle is stronger than the pen, el teclado, vocal chords. No se what is going on pero por lo menos for me and I’m pretty sure for others that our heart is keeping track, recording for when we are ready.