THREE POEMS by NAT RAUM
letter to the abyss
of course today would be the day i parted the kitchen curtains and saw the daffodils, butteryellow flowers suspended from hollowgreen stems on a tawny carpet of forest floor. can you believe this fall, it will be ten years since they were planted? on a scale of one to ten, i am doing Not Great. on a scale of one to suicidal, i’m like, a six—picture me pixelated, jumping across holes that would carry me to hades’ doorstep. i’ve fallen; the thud of a final heartbeat sounds. but i respawn. cockroaches always respawn, antennae at the ready. the daffodils always grow back, year after year. i imbue nail beds with earth on the ascent, hungry. i am still always hungry for more.
meanwhile, my ptsd is doing cartwheels
imagining my demons as the little
eric cartman-looking kids in the classic
miniclip game snowfight 3D, running
around yelling hey and terrorizing me
with snowballs. it felt like spring today
and i awoke in sweat and shaking fingers,
anxiety ready to greet the day. it’s almost
hospital day, which means it’s almost
my rebirthday. in outside-the-closet
years, i’m barely as old as a snowball
kid. anyway, four years ago i took
too many edibles and thought
i might die, and my partner did
nothing. after that, i remember nothing
until he freed me. there is no
season untainted by the taste
of a selfish lover, but something
about springtime hits different.
the dogwood in the backyard
has little chartreuse buds dotting
its branches; meanwhile, arthritis
makes writing impossible. knees
and ankles snap-crackle-pop
when i climb the stairs. my body
may never forget. it crunches
like twigs underfoot, delicate.
mentally, i am upside down
flying through the air. meanwhile,
my ptsd is doing cartwheels.
self-portrait as host body
symbiosis said fuck you in particular
when it encountered the dry skin
stretched across my cheekbones,
saturated with tears shed for boys
who wouldn’t dare return the favor.
i pluck recollections from brain
matter like ticks, detached heads
buried deep in the hides of passing
deer. this is only the beginning.
my bloodstream barrels through
arteries, spreads the essence
of an ache through my anatomy.
there are only traces of treacle
amid the spreading blight. i ask
whatever force there is when
i will be finished the task of crossing
the schism between who i was
and what i want for myself now;
the sky replies when you feel like it.
nat raum is an anti-capitalization anticapitalist based on occupied Piscataway and Susquehannock land in Baltimore. They can be found online at natraum.com or astral projecting in their local Target.