JOANNE DOMINIQUE DWYER Irish Traveler’s Writer’s Block

No longer on my knees holed up with a halitosis priest

in the twilit-dark behind a screen of latticed woodwork.

No longer swathed in a fog of incense.

Not thirsting for absolution, but slanting towards a mindset of confession.

Desire to disclose that mornings I promise myself to write

I do housework, albeit arbitrarily—sprinkling

toilet bowl cleaner as though I’m anointing the sick

but never get around to abrading the porcelain.

Drink two cups of chai, return emails.

Put musk oil in my hair, lemon hydrating lotion on my feet—

a woman just shy of wallpapering her tongue.

I top flaxseed toast with grass-fed butter.

Apply flea and tick repellent to the lonely dogs.

Drape laundry in the coppery sun, tweeze my fading eyebrows.

Put a pot of garbanzo beans on to boil, water the withering fruit trees,

check traps for rotting rodents.

Shake out the Kashmiri prayer rug from under my desk.

Chant mantras in a language not my own.

Only now am I tranquilized down enough to write.

And then Leonard Cohen’s lyrics leap into my head:

A million candles burning for the help that never came.

Which sidetracks me into believing it is best not to need.

No anodynes or aphrodisiacs, no aide insulating my attic,

no jump when my battery dies, no holy words

or holy water, no cream to temper my caffeine.

Instead of marrying words to trees, I go down the stairs

of my basement, retrieve a polyester superhero costume

to wear to God’s funeral. Dab a little perfume

between my breasts and on the small of my back.

I arrive and look around to see who is crying.

I sing burial songs, write my name in the ledger.

Return home, mascara smeared, as if I’ve been punched

or had a facelift, eat heavily frosted supermarket cake.

Then make an appointment for later the same day,

while I still have tequila in my blood, to get a tattoo

of an invisible rider on the back of a black mare.

from New Ohio Review