tanka
when did that angel
turn her sparkling eyes to steel?
photographs
blurred like a rainy windshield
I search for the yellow line
Poem 2, June 2
Poetry Publisher
“I never publish a poet who writes
in the first person. I don’t care about I
enough to read the poem, &
I never publish a manuscript
by any poet who presumes
to put self above the rest of us,” so
spoke the learned publisher.
Anne Sexton, he would not have published her,
ending The Black Art, how did it go:
Dear love, I am that girl. Perhaps he assumes
Walt Whitman’s I celebrate myself too nondescript
to bloom on the page like lilacs for the last time &
who do I think I am that I can write of you, what I
choose—butterfly that circles once—alights
upon my shoulder?
Forty-two.
That’s how many legs I count on you
As we stand motionless in a standoff
Inside the narrow walls of my kitchen.
Hard to avert my eyes
For fear of your movement,
You must be a fast little bugger.
Quite frankly, I loathe the thought of your movement
Your segmented body pulsing so sickeningly
To the rhythm of my heart of hate.
All those extra legs,
I envision them on my skin
And, oh my God, I’m about to retch!
Your alien form
So unnatural!
You don’t belong in my kitchen.
You don’t belong in my world!
Except…
What is the meaning of unnatural?
It’s not like you climbed out of a test tube
Like one of Dr. Frankenstein’s reject experiments,
Proceeding to find your way specifically to me.
No, you were placed on this Earth like me.
At one time there was probably some eighty-four leg monstrosity…
Sorry…
For the sake of our lunch
Let’s assume it was eggs after that.
That’s how little I know.
But you started small,
Grew from that,
Going where you want,
Eating what you want,
And peeing where you want.
So who am I to say you are unnatural?
I may not be comfortable with extra appendages
But you’re comfortable in your own beauty.
It’s not my right to kill.
If I can adopt that sentiment,
Soon I can understand.
From understanding comes love.
As for right now,
You do have your place in the world,
If not necessarily in my kitchen.
Ink Pen
I’m funny about my pens.
I used to write only with a real
fountain pen
until they became a nuisance
with their incessant leaks.
Now,
I use only a rollerball
preferably with a micro point
but fine will do in a pinch.
What I absolutley won’t use
except in an emergency–
the lowly ball point
but I cant’ tell you the times
I’ve had a pen leak
all over my hands
writing a check in church
or I remember Ellen
at M.D. Aderson
desperate to get ink stains
off her fingers
on her way to treatment
needing to be worthy
to be healed.
When I walked back into the house
It was warm in a way I can’t create.
I secretly hoped my neighbors would smell the food cooking
And know I wasn’t eating alone.
Alone people make microwavable meals.
Alone people don’t talk out loud and when they do,
No one but the cats talk back.
My mother knew the answer to the warmth equation.
Some arithmetic of rosemary and sage.
It’s not about the gas bill its more about thyme.
My math was always off when creating the sweet home illusion.
This house doesn’t have a fireplace
I can’t afford the amount of cinnamon candles it takes to mask the truth.
Hers is a denial I can’t muster the energy to create.
Even in a shaking structure she could prepare a snow globe Christmas.
And when I turned the corner to you cooking our spaghetti,
I wished you would just go home.
We both know where you live and where you don’t.
Even the neighbors know this warmth won’t last all week.
When I walked back into the house
It was warm in a way I can’t create.
I secretly hoped my neighbors would smell the food cooking
And know I wasn’t eating alone.
Alone people make microwavable meals.
Alone people don’t talk out loud and when they do,
No one but the cats talk back.
My mother knew the answer to the warmth equation.
Some arithmetic of rosemary and sage.
It’s not about the gas bill its more about thyme.
My math was always off when creating the sweet home illusion.
This house doesn’t have a fireplace
I can’t afford the amount of cinnamon candles it takes to mask the truth.
Hers is a denial I can’t muster the energy to create.
Even in a shaking structure she could prepare a snow globe Christmas.
And when I turned the corner to you cooking our spaghetti,
I wished you would just go home.
We both know where you live and where you don’t.
Even the neighbors know this warmth won’t last all week.
Plump
I am plump because it suits me
I am plump and I am beauty
I am grandiose and vast
I am strong and built to last
I’m a tank and I am luscious
Take a bow; respect the Duchess
I am rich and sweet and thick
I’m not done
Put down the stick
I am rooted to the ground
I reverberate the sound
Of the rhythms in the Earth
I am pleasure
I am mirth
I am plump
for Ginny
While some cats have their own, very special chair,
their own, very special blanket,
their own, very special groomer,
four cats abandoned by college students
wait patiently in the school parking lot
for the good woman who loves them.
Ginny feeds them from stainless steel bowls,
talks to them, and provides the injured one
with a trip to the vet
until the day
bulldozers razed the building
and crews jackhammered the lot.
The cats, terrified, scattered from under the cars.
Where did they go?
The students have left for the summer.
Ginny’s office has moved up the hill.
Will the cats track her? Who will welcome them now?
