try calling it hibernation.
Imagine the darkness is a cave
in which you will be nurtured
by doing absolutely nothing.
Hibernating animals don't even dream.
It's okay if you can't imagine
Spring. Sleep through the alarm
of the world. Name your hopelessness
a quiet hollow, a place you go
to heal, a den you dug,
Sweetheart, instead
of a grave.
—Andrea Gibson (1975-2025), "Instead of Depression," from You Better Be Lightning (Button Poetry, 2021). This was the first of Gibson's poems I ever read.
*
When you are trapped in a nightmare, your motivation to awaken will be so much greater than that of someone caught up in a relatively pleasant dream. —Eckhart Tolle
When I realized the storm
was inevitable, I made it
my medicine.
Took two snowflakes
on the tongue in the morning,
two snowflakes on the tongue
by noon.
There were no side effects.
Only sound effects. Reverb
added to my lifespan,
an echo that asked—
What part of your life's record is skipping?
What wound is on repeat?
Have you done everything you can
to break out of that groove?
By nighttime, I was intimate
with the difference
between tying my laces
and tuning the string section
of my shoes, made a symphony of walking
away from everything that did not
want my life to sing.
Felt a love for myself so consistent
metronomes tried to copyright
my heartbeat.
Finally understood I am the conductor
of my own life, and will be even after I die.
I, like the trees, will decide what I become:
porch swing? Church pew?
An envelope that must be licked
to be closed?
Kinky choice, but
I didn’t close.
I opened and opened
until I could imagine that the pain
was the sensation of my spirit
not breaking,
that my mind was a parachute
that could always open
in time,
that I could wear my heart
on my sleeve and never grow
out of that shirt.
That every falling leaf is a tiny kite
with a string too small to see, held
by the part of me in charge
of making beauty
out of grief.
—Andrea Gibson (1975-2025), "How the Worst Day of My Life Became the Best," from You Better Be Lightning (Button Poetry, 2021), and in this case also from poets.org. In the book, this poem as printed on the page is much more spread out, but I didn't feel like I could replicate the spacing super effectively here, so I used the poets.org version. But Gibson was a slam poet; here they are reading this poem aloud.
in which you will be nurtured
by doing absolutely nothing.
Hibernating animals don't even dream.
It's okay if you can't imagine
Spring. Sleep through the alarm
of the world. Name your hopelessness
a quiet hollow, a place you go
to heal, a den you dug,
Sweetheart, instead
of a grave.
—Andrea Gibson (1975-2025), "Instead of Depression," from You Better Be Lightning (Button Poetry, 2021). This was the first of Gibson's poems I ever read.
*
When you are trapped in a nightmare, your motivation to awaken will be so much greater than that of someone caught up in a relatively pleasant dream. —Eckhart Tolle
When I realized the storm
was inevitable, I made it
my medicine.
Took two snowflakes
on the tongue in the morning,
two snowflakes on the tongue
by noon.
There were no side effects.
Only sound effects. Reverb
added to my lifespan,
an echo that asked—
What part of your life's record is skipping?
What wound is on repeat?
Have you done everything you can
to break out of that groove?
By nighttime, I was intimate
with the difference
between tying my laces
and tuning the string section
of my shoes, made a symphony of walking
away from everything that did not
want my life to sing.
Felt a love for myself so consistent
metronomes tried to copyright
my heartbeat.
Finally understood I am the conductor
of my own life, and will be even after I die.
I, like the trees, will decide what I become:
porch swing? Church pew?
An envelope that must be licked
to be closed?
Kinky choice, but
I didn’t close.
I opened and opened
until I could imagine that the pain
was the sensation of my spirit
not breaking,
that my mind was a parachute
that could always open
in time,
that I could wear my heart
on my sleeve and never grow
out of that shirt.
That every falling leaf is a tiny kite
with a string too small to see, held
by the part of me in charge
of making beauty
out of grief.
—Andrea Gibson (1975-2025), "How the Worst Day of My Life Became the Best," from You Better Be Lightning (Button Poetry, 2021), and in this case also from poets.org. In the book, this poem as printed on the page is much more spread out, but I didn't feel like I could replicate the spacing super effectively here, so I used the poets.org version. But Gibson was a slam poet; here they are reading this poem aloud.
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