It's National Poetry Month, and, you know, my employer is a powerful lover of poetry.
Each morning he (the CEO) sends the staff a poem or two.
Some slide off me, or I'm busy with emails, or I lose interest.

This one, today, felt like it burnt a hole in me.

from The Uses of the Body

Before you have kids,
you get a dog.

Then when you get a baby,
you wait for the dog to die.

When the dog dies,
it’s a relief.

When your babies aren’t babies,
you want a dog again.

The uses of the body,
you see where they end.

But we are only in the middle,
only mid-way.

The organs growing older in their plush pockets
ticking toward the wearing out.

We are here and soon won’t be
(despite the cozy bed stuffed dog pillows books clock).

The boy with his socks on and pajamas.
A series of accidental collisions.

Pressure in the chest. Everyone breathing
for now, in and out, all night.

These sad things, they have to be.
I go into the kitchen thinking to sweeten myself.

Boiled eggs won’t do a thing.
Oysters. Lysol. Peanut butter. Gin.

Big babyface, getting fed.
I am twenty. I am thirty. I am forty years old.

A friend said Listen,
you have to try to calm down.

Deborah Landau


Anonymous said…
I am indifferent to poetry, mostly, unless someone shoves it in front of me and even then, often, eh. But I feel this one. Thanks for sharing. Traveling mercies.

TX Carol
I either wrote that or it was written about me. Think the latter.
Paola said…
Powerful indeed.