once I wrote a poem called salt season and I thought of it today when this came through

Will I accidentally live forever / And be sentenced to smile at men / I wish were dead

Morgan Parker

 

summer arrives blunt-edged overbearing   your therapist suggests a test for hsp or highly sensitive people and you smirk as if you need this test you know your sensitivity is an overgrown garden you soaked Bukowski-like in brown liquor and cheap wine for years but that which you can not kill only grows like a weed   yesterday you tromp thru woods hauling the dogs sweat beading upon your brow and in between breasts oh this again  beating feet to keep up with your man who blazes before you threatening to catch this whole green sea on fire for a moment the shade opens up to a field of honeysuckle that which you die for one redeeming summer signal one repeat offender you crave wanting to cover you over with it string it from your neck your wrists a whole pyre of such unlikely kindling how does your garden grow now   now that you don’t drink it dry now that you peel back layers of steel and iron skin a whole unending pasture of sensitive regenerative cells underneath waiting for your kiss your hot breath your attention   lately you bathe in new hip hop royalty you relearn yoga in your living room you fear something terrible is happening in the world today you hear the muted cries on the radio before you turn the whole thing off and feel okay about it because the test suggests that an hsp such as yourself is bothered by intense stimuli like loud noises or chaotic scenes  you wonder too how long it will take before you quit your job because you can’t stomach one more night of your boss saying   if you weren’t such a bitch about everything it would be nice or perhaps you should just try being nice or have you ever thought smiling more it’s nicer that way    you go back to that particular field of tangled honeysuckle brush at the edge of the woods near the elementary school fence and roll your body around until the scent covers your skin like your dog does with something dead in the yard   you reek with pungent flowers then your sensitivity spilling out of your pores like sweat like river like ocean  that which you can no longer hold inside that which you can only drink from and grow