A Cold Blow Poem by Tara Teeling

Not everyone
is meant to be more
than ordinary, you say.

You told me this before,
and I dismissed you
because you might have been content
with that way of thinking,
but you were always meant to be.

We sit there, sipping
on something hot,
warding off the chill of
a newly departed season,
and I taste dead leaves.

These words, I think to myself,
and all others like them,
should be forgotten
before the last one unfolds,
because they lack conviction
and reek of resignation.

Hey you,
I say while hot needles
bleed down my throat
draining into a pool of cool,
I carry my world
in a sack over my shoulder,
believing that the carefully stitched fabric,
portends the greatness within.
It’s no burden to the likes of me,
while the modest sack you carry
looks to be much lighter than mine.
I say this with some bemused disdain
and pleased with my play,
I take another sip.

You smile,
and look at me
with what could only be
deprecating derision.

Look, you say,
rolling your eyes as one does,
my sack is certainly lighter,
and far more plain,
but I’m not struggling to carry it
and can walk fairly straight,
scarcely aware that I wear it.
How do you bear the load in yours?

I sheepishly look away,
unable to deny that I am
slump-shouldered from the weight
of a dazzle-bag of ordinary,
and shivering madly as
some kind of winter
crawls over my skin.