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Bear with me today
because I’m thinking
about what’s in front
of us in this second,
whatever, wherever
you might be—bear
with me. I’m almost
out of my mind. Feel
my chest, tight, like
elastic ready to snap.
Put down a metaphor
for brittle, body, break.
My body is taut. Rat
a tat: a series of knocks
at the door. Slam it shut.
Do you have a warrant?
I don’t do much sleeping.
My body weeps, pulled
into the undertow. I’ve no
resistance to the rising
tide. Silt, salt, foam, wall.
Bear with me. I beg you,
you who believe, let your
god know this would be a
good time for it to lift up
its countenance among us.
Bear with me if I repeat my
fears—if my refusal to let go
scares you. I want to know
why you wander door to door,
in pursuit of something you
imagine, but haven’t found.
Do you hear? The rooms rife
with past choices, old voices.
I don’t know how this ends.
Bear with me. I’m searching for a conclusion.
Linda Laderman is a Michigan poet. Her poetry has appeared in numerous literary journals, including Action-Spectacle, SWWIM, Rise Up Review, and Rust & Moth. She is a past recipient of Harbor Review’s Jewish Women’s Prize. Her micro-chapbook What I Didn’t Know I Didn’t Know can be found online at Harbor Review. In past lives, she was a journalist and taught English at Owens Community College and Lourdes University, in Ohio.
