for Mary Oliver
What I want to say is what
I want to say. I ran the water
poach-hot, watched my shoulder
rose like a struck cheek. Because
something there. Unwinds. In the
way water slucks. In the seventh grade,
the first-chair trumpet never
looked at me and I loved him.
I put my foot through a wall. I didn’t
want anyone. To know. Me, peach-
softening in the bleachers. Me, lush,
as a honey-sick ermine. I nearly
bit my mom in half. How’d I get me
into this? Saying palm-puddled
daisyleaf in place of sorry. It’s not
like shattered drywall is some easier
words—because I had to caulk it all back
myself. It’s maybe that I won’t believe
words lack feet. And fur. I’m not in this
to be misunderstood, though I was.
Before. Distracting with a wrecked beanfield,
or gargled-up okra stuff–but now
I mean it when I say I’m willful
as yogurt in the sunshine. How it’s
made slow cheese. Look, I wrote a poem
to tell you something genuine. Though.
It doesn’t always seem that way. I still
believe folding a fisheye in lardo and salt
is the best way for you to feel the dream
that sucked sleep out of me. So. I sit down
with the green of many slick frogs. The sharp
and insufficient air of a mountainside.
The eatable gouda rind. What I think
was buck last night, groaning like a ship.
Childhood & Coming of Age
Memory & The Past
a line break interrupting the middle of a phrase which continues on to the next line
a question asked for effect, not necessarily to be answered
a comparison between two unlike things using the words “like” or “as”