brief encounters with short men

We are amazed how hurt we are.
We would give anything for what we have.

-- from "Jet," T.H.

Last night I was wearing a new orange coat and a gray sweater, standing in the lobby of a building downtown. Across the river, in the office buildings, lights were burning yellow and orange. The chairs and table on the bridge were spotlighted. The room was warm, and we were huddled in little circles, talking about the poetry reading that had just let out, one that was loud and funny and heartbreaking, one that brought the house down.

There were fruit platters and free drinks and a piano player somewhere around the corner. And I was standing there, holding my beautiful broadsides and my books, and all I could think was, What the fuck has happened to me. Where is my goddamned head, and where has it been, and can I please get it back before I completely implode.

I feel so distant these days from the person I was last year. I feel tired all the time, and lonely, and more often than not I get through each day by breaking it into tiny little pieces, until it's time for bed, where I curl up and watch bad television until I fall asleep. And then a few hours later I wake up--jolted awake like something shot from a cannon, and my mind is racing like I've been drinking espresso since eight p.m. It screams at me that my students hate my class, that I am a bad teacher, that I should never, ever give anyone any advice because I have no idea what I am doing in any arena of my own life. And this lasts for an hour or two or three, until I can bury my face back into the blankets and fall asleep for a few hours before the sun rises and it's time for another day of feeling like an absolute zombie.

I know that it has been a crazy few months, that summer came and brought things I was perhaps not expecting--reacclimation, and a wedding, and a broken foot, and an extra class. I know that I am not the only person right now who is going through something bumpy and rocky, that many of us wake up every day and think, Well, this is different. Let's just get through the day, huh? I know that I need to reclaim the things that I used to find so beautiful about this town, back when it was just me and a dog learning our way around.

I know that there are chemicals at work in my brain that are also finding their way, and that I need to be patient.

I have, as of yesterday, been given the go-ahead to wear running shoes and take short walks, and I know that I need to go back to my old ways, when I would wake up and tell myself that I needed to get out of the house and go do something. And I am trying. I can see some lights, I think, at the end of the long road I've been traveling, and I am making changes to my schedule so that I don't find myself looking at everything and thinking Blechhhh.

Last night I watched the poets, and I thought back to--where else?--Minnesota. It was in Minnesota that I first met one of them, the one that is my all-time favorite poet, the one whose lines run through my head nearly every day. After the reading, I stood in line to meet him, he of the short stature and the vests, and we chatted for a few minutes: about Simon Armitage, and about Kato, and about the time we met in 2005, sitting in a tiny room in that old building. He told me that he hoped that conference had gone well, and I told him that it had been one of the best moments of my writing life, that he had read through some poems and asked me where my voice was, and that I had since found it. Or I think I have.

And something uncurled in my chest. When I walked away, as I made my way to the lobby, I thought: I am so tired of feeling like I do, and like I have. I want to be happy here again.

So here I am. I am packing papers that need to be graded into an old messenger bag, and I am wearing familiar shoes, and I am heading to a coffee shop named for a bird. And after that I am going to walk the wet sidewalks of this neighborhood and remember this time last year, when I would end each day with a run and wave to folks arranging cornstalks and pumpkins on their porches. I want to feel like a citizen again, and I want to cross the campus filled with a sense of purpose and wonder. I want to write five new poems, puzzle the words and nudge them into the right lines. I want to go out tonight with the friends we've made and drink dark pints and laugh. I want to be here now. I want my voice back.

And so here I go.