357. Hot Mess (Myshkin, 2026) · free verse

“Strong feelings, Recollected in tranquility.” That is poetry. So they say. Whoever “they” is. I do have tranquility, This handful of days As the school year ends And I rent two homes In a strange new land With a language that sneezes. I keep pushing back One set of feelings, Darkness and anger, Fear and loathing and shame, Collecting interest, 28.99% APR. I will return to connection, And face those feelings, When I am less fragile, Which is not now, not yet. I have IKEA beds to move, Couches to purchase, And a plane to catch In less than enough days. But this particular Sunday morning (Coming down) I wrote “happiness list” At the top of my to-do list Then “Really cry, Really laugh, Really think” An ode to Jimmy V. I then lost myself Down the rabbit hole, Tracks laid down By a different kind of poet. All she wrote was, “Let me tell you of the moment thirty-three of us shared one last dance,” And the tears came. I’m still crying At the beautiful futility Of trying to capture The magic of the moment I just remembered, In the language… Of the English! I really ought to live in Spain. Tears of recognition For the incredible gift Of those three straight hours Dancing with one stranger Who spoke salsa not blues, On an empty stage, To the musicians jamming, As the night mist turned to dawn. That deep knowing That there are moments, Were moments, Maybe more still to come, Which pierce the yellow Fucking grayness Of most of my life, That there is victory, Or redemption, Or at least a good story to tell, Around every potential corner. There were no cameras, At this final gathering Of the perfect summer camp, Because people in hazmat suits Took all our electronics upon arrival And, with mock seriousness, Fumigated us outside the tent. So much grief and love there, Vulnerable courageous connection, As they mourned their founder, Dead from brain cancer at thirty-three. I can’t draw a straight line to those dances From being greeted by musicians as I parked, From loss and grief workshop I chose Over the camp-defining color wars, From my romantic-partner-camp-counselor Who informed me I had to attend. But time and place matter… I will never be that young again.