Love Letter

The guy on the radio says its normal:
The rage, the grief, the intrusive thoughts.
The mania, the disassociation, crying jags.
Hyper vigilance, insomnia, narcolepsy,
auditory hallucinations, compulsions.
The cross-dressing, self-injury, catatonia--

Wait a minute.

So maybe I got carried away there.
But lodged like a hot rock
or a baby ready to be birthed

it wants out. Let it go.

And the snot-stained blouses and red eyes,
the mussed hair, the hugs, the fat smelly strangers
who suddenly feel like home;
I am everybody’s cousin for this holiday.

It might look like I’m sulking
curled up in the corner, rigid,
staring straight ahead, maybe
maybe listening to some far off
kind of dog-whistle voice,

but I feel real pretty
in my yellow dress.