a marathon of poetry

My dad says, “What you do on new year’s day is what you will do for the rest of the year.”

So, I am very careful on this first day, overanalyzing my thoughts and steps. Don’t think that, Aimee. Or: Be more mindful/kind/slow/grateful.

Day begins with warmth. An unzipped sky, blue nude. Wind still asleep as windows remain still and unbothered. Breakfast with another. With a Poet. With a scholar. With one who can match my appetite. This year begins with satiation. Then, a walk beneath subtle shake of snow from above. Slow-motion drizzle of icy beads. We part and I travel underground.

I spend eight hours listening to a marathon of poetry at one of my favorite theatres, surrounded by humans who offer me medicine I do not need healthcare to cover. My skin trembles away from my bones. This is what it feels like to feel alive.

Declarations. Mourning. Tributes. Music. Movement of a body drenched in synthetic skin. One who seizures out sonnets. One who disengages his jaw to let us all fit inside. One who removes his pants. One who no longer needs a microphone to be heard.

There are no promises this year, other than to be alive. To remain like a heartbeat in this earth a little longer. See what that feels like.