Well, I'm at it again. I'm not putting a limit on what I write this month, but I'm hoping for, at least, the bare minimum of 30 poems. Last year I did 62. If I do 60, 90, 120...great. I just need a swift kick in the ass. With that said, here's the first one. It's in honor of Adrienne Rich, who we lost this week.
(after Adrienne Rich)
I know you are reading this poem
in the late hours of a gray morning,
your legs twisted around an uncomfortable
chair, a mug of something hot trailing
small streams of steam off towards the ceiling.
I know you are reading this poem and thinking
it is about you, as you pick apart the nouns,
look for the slightest hint of your habits in
the verbs, and tap your pen feverishly on the
varnished wood of your dining room table.
I know you are reading this poem, eager to
draw lines through stanzas, call something
cliche and tell me that the title is crap.
I know you are reading this poem in bitter
disappointment, knowing that I am being evasive
on purpose, just to throw you off the scent,
to keep you from all that my fingers have held
back while writing it.
I know you are reading this poem and have already
buried its words into brain storage, to use against
me at a later date, when you are standing in the doorway,
screaming frustrations and pointed accusations.
I know you are reading this poem, as it is the only
thing I've left behind after the crisp, early April
air has taken my breathing.