I'm Not Really Ready

a poem about hope

It’s been a week. And I’ve been more quiet than not. Spending as much time as possible outside. Soaking up the sun. Breathing in the fresh air. Walking. Resting. Listening. Writing. And I share one poem I’ve written with you today. Read and listen below.

I’m Not Really Ready: a poem about hope
©Rebecca Wilson, November 12, 2024

I’m not really ready for hope, but if you must send it
wrap it in the fading comic section from Sunday’s newspaper
secure it with duct tape
use minty dental floss as ribbon to hold it together
take it to the post office
wait without complaining in the long line
thank the clerk for their hard work
don’t order anyone with a blank face to smile
add extra postage to make sure it arrives

I’m not really ready for hope, but if you must share it
don’t make it fluffy and soft
describe the time you bashed your toe on a hard rock
and your nail fell off and it hurt like hell
don’t make it so sugary sweet that my teeth shiver
leave in the bitter
mix in the memory of when you lost your gloves in the coldest of winters
invite me to feel the frost bite on your fingers

I’m not really ready for hope, but if you must sing it
make it a symphony not just a song
you’re not a composer
well, challenge yourself to learn before you dare call yourself a teacher
tell me your brokenness before you claim yourself a healer

I’m not really ready for hope, but if you must promote it
be honest about why it’s in such short supply
how, like resilience and egg prices, we exploit it
use it to soothe our guilt
denying the ways we harm others while glorifying their survival
knowing how doesn’t mean I should have to

I’m not really ready for hope, but if you must explain it
remind me of Jim and the crows
how 1619 and 2008 and January 6th weren’t that long ago
wade through the muddy waters of roe
back alley abortions, the young woman who died last week
when doctors wouldn’t help her miscarry for threat of being sued
speak to the black women who ran polling locations in cities throughout this country
returning home to texts about being taken back to the plantation
the ballot boxes caught on fire
the bomb threats in strategically chosen places
don’t let me forget, dare me to remember

I’m not really ready for hope, but if you must uplift it
don’t hold back all that goes with it
grief and sorrow, passion and anger
don’t tease me with first love
ripping out the chapter on their betrayal
sure, tell me about the living right after you name the dead
how hope left you screaming and bleeding
unable to discern nightmares from dreaming
how like a feather it floated away
and you lost years chasing after it
reveal how it tickled your feet when you finally caught up with it

I’m not really ready for hope, but if you must endorse it
make it so personal it’s innately universal
like children in Gaza making game pieces from the rubble
as the world watches them play and sponsors their burial
children in Flint learning to repurpose fountains
that still can’t be used to drink the water
queer kids telling families this is who I am
this the name I call myself now

mothers baking bread for tomorrow when today’s violence is unfathomable
daughters holding their mother’s hands through the unimaginable
grandmothers sitting vigil at the bedside of creation
lighting candles, turning mountains into sleeping bags and oceans into hospitals
artists shaping guns into gardens
bullets into seeds
where magical things grow
like abundance and enough
joy of every fruit and flavor

I’m not really ready for hope, but if you insist I have it
detach it to your religion, pull god from it all together
make room for an out of town guest with no date of arrival or departure
make space for the fearful
to loudly whisper why they are so frightened
pour water on the deniers and the gas-lighters
paint me a picture
use all your pain and every color
make it as vividly abstract as possible
whatever you do, refuse to make it practical
make it so absurd it’s the only way believable

I’m not really ready for hope
I’m surely not ready to go without it either

Waterfully Yours,
Rebecca & 10 Camels

Hopeful, hopeless, or somewhere in between, there is no one way or right way to feel right now. The aftermath and anticipation of last week’s elections here in the United States stir many emotions. May we be gentle with ourselves and one another, and fierce in our resistance.

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