This poem is pretty self-explanatory and was written during a time last fall where I felt trapped and couldn’t write (or think) about anything else.
One of the craft tendencies I have in my work is to mimic and incorporate social media terms, slang, and format. As someone who works in digital media for my day job, I find our world of Instagram, Facebook, and beyond to be fascinatingly intertwined with art. While there are many elements of social media I think are deeply problematic, it nevertheless has shaped our modern world. I wanted to form the poem to look like a string of emails or Skype messages similar to how many of our “work from home” conversations occur. While part of me feels conflicted about letting social media seep into my poetry, I also think it’s a massive indicator of how I (and my generation) have been raised within media and art.
2 Weeks Notice
you have to understand, for me it’s different.
I am the underdog, the mega girlboss who could.
hands shake above a notepad, pen in hand,
responses concise and
useless. your dream isn’t scheduled to arrive yet,
remember all of those tiny missteps I overlooked, let you take take take a vacation?
the holiday wine and the wfh sick days and how good I used to be?
and what am I? what am I if not doing the exactsamething.
twenty-five with past dues and tow requests and “urgents” and a half education
ignoring prescription pickups and phone calls and
dinner dates and dentist appointments and
maybe it was time I finally went in for a hair cut and the last call
to my grandmother was weeks ago
and so renews my Zoom premium membership.
you can’t, there’s just
no way to leave
the words are slower this time, maybe she’ll understand better
like the children, like the followers on our whitewashed
I am not
I wish I knew how to say more
to stay more
but I am not doing well.
I mean, it’s just, I don’t think
and I am terribly sorry to hear that
you’re letting us down, you know how this works
the writer has left the conversation.