Some Days are Harder
Buy Issue for $25 at JHUP- Some Days are Harder
SOME DAYS ARE HARDER
I'm slowly learning that I should adoremyself. I know I can't ever go backto sleepless nights and "angst." The word adoreis so poetic (Shakespeare "did adorea twinkling star," remember?) or a rockmusic trope: "It's you that I adore.You'll always be my whore." But I adorethe word, the innocence. I think it's rightto be naïve and vulnerable, to writeyourself a villanelle or maybe eight (ormore). It's for the aching soul, you see?Like Camembert, like lounging by the sea.
I don't know if anyone will seethe point in arrogance, this whole "adoremyself" thing. Cocky with a massive C.I think my brother might. I sometimes seehim in my own reflection, in the backon bus rides, even though it's pretty easyto know he's far away, at least, to seethe harbor in his photos, or the Hard RockCafé downtown, the place where (our Barackcondemned them) riots happened. Don't you seethat all the world's in pain? You see it rightthere on the news? My mother says, "All right,
enough. You need some sleep, or maybe writeall afternoon, or drive down to the sea,until you realize that you'll be all rightagain." I spend the evenings in the brightlight that simulates the sun, a doorto my apartment open. Is it rightto eavesdrop on my neighbor even rightbefore he kicks the bucket? He's gone back [End Page 229] to hacking in the mornings, even backto crying, so I've heard. I used to writeabout whether he'll die in style, rocka silver necklace or a massive rock,
the band tight on his finger. Does it rockto be old? Doubt it. Think about James Wright:"I've wasted my life." Yikes. "A total crockof bullshit," Caitlyn said once at a rockconcert—no, a restaurant, fricasseein bowls before us, the potatoes rockhard. "My friend from UC Irvine, Brock,hates that poem, too. God, I adorehim." I know Caitlyn always adorespretention, like that sculptor who carved rocksbut seemed to think he ruled the country, backwhen we all thought we'd end up happy, back
then. I tell myself not to go backto constant reminiscing. "Never rockthe boat," I tell myself, "by thinking backto everyone who screwed you over." Backto basics: deep breaths, pasta. Of course, writing.Maybe a tat across my back:I heard the news today or Don't look backin anger. Why get a tat you can't see,though? So why not something I can see?On my shoulder, maybe. In the backof my own conscience, I know I'd adorea floral one that tells me to "adore
myself." Yes, I remember. I'd adoremyself if I were edgy. I don't seethe point of anything these days. Why rocka smile if it's not authentic, right?Mine once was. Yours, too. Wanna go back? [End Page 230]
ALEXIS SEARS received her MFA in poetry at the University of Wisconsin– Madison. She was a 2019 Sewanee Writers' Conference scholar and her manuscript, Out of Order, was a finalist for the New Criterion Poetry Prize. Alexis's work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Hopkins Review, The Cortland Review, Able Muse, Sou'wester, [PANK], The Texas Review, Passages North and elsewhere.
