i. imagining reading my son's first poem

while I folded clothes
that previously roomed
someone who knew exactly
what pants to buy,
I just seconded her choice--
and if i could make you see pass
what you did not have,
for you to keep that pure voice
that knew it was still carrots
despite your Mama's creative ploys,
way pass until another voice
and another
tells you who you are.
and you could see me
like a present nobody knows
to unwrap but you
go and tell them again
better than i can
who i am, son.


ii. my son's dad plays guitar on the patio

surprisingly still writes love songs
another face profiles his hopes
another inherits his stinks
puts his name under her lids
to hug with her blink
she needs space he said
i did not say out loud
I know
"you are like a happy hedgehog
that likes to hug
or a giant flower that sucks all the water
under its roots"
i know now you mean no harm--
you are harm.


iii. Proactive Fat Ethnic Employee

someone is paying me
not to think about poetry
3-8 hours a day
instead know the constitution
of a perfect double-double.
for a few hours a day
the world churns its own destruction outside
the universe churns our imminent end
and i churn ice into frapp
happy in this life,
happy in this trap.

03/27/2016

Posted on 03/28/2016
Copyright © 2024 Johanna May