Writers

Written after a week in Iowa City at the University of Iowa for a writer's workshop.

Writer’s Workshop

Dale sits across from me

in our Iowa City pow wow

deep in the wounds of the river.

He’s a mountain man Mark Twain

here for therapy

but, we all are.

The currents stop for him this week

his raft safely tethered.

Sherry’s next to me

trying to wean off her medication. 

If Sherry weren’t a writer,

she might be a trucker

with that kind of vocabulary.

Twelve souls scratch the wooden table

of our minds within this writing room. 

We search for words never put together before

and struggle.

But this isn’t Scrabble, 

this is the soul’s integrity

it reaches out beneath layers of skin 

toughened and hard-bitten till the first drop of ink hits the veins

of our loss, our memories, our hurt, our weaknesses.

I don’t want to know these people outside

of this room.

buy groceries with them

cash our checks or balance our debts.

I can’t sit with them in church 

can’t see their sins played out before me

can’t take their pain.

These mythical creatures---

These writers

Titans buried in the earth

Are best left suspended between the here

And the future now

And the place where memories script themselves on a long ride home.