Tuesday, May 23, 2017

I am not a poet

Yesterday I taught my son how to
blow his nose. Press one side
and blow out the other. He insists
on sucking it in. My daughter blows
but sees no need for kleenex.  

My father hangs deer on his walls
because there are no trophies for erecting
buildings. Just walls. Not the kind that
keep aliens out. We don't have aliens
in Canada.

I am not a poet because I don’t
walk the streets of New York. I can be
seen talking to myself through the thick brush
inside my nostrils. But nobody sees.
That’s the thing.

Green is too opaque to notice
a poem by O’Hara or the smell of birds
singing “Piece by piece”. I love Kelly Clarkson
for her balls. She made something
of herself.

Is a mother something? I wonder about this.
I wonder why you can’t see past George
Washington to where I am sitting, reading
Alicia Ostriker on a single blade of green
grass. She is, after all not a redheaded lesbian.
And neither am I.

I tried to buckle my son in his car seat,
when he asked for the keys to my car.
He was going to pick up a brown haired girl
named Sarah. Pollen poured from his brow,
as they headed downstairs. I handed him
kleenex.  Just in case.


  1. Somehow this makes me think of The Lanyard - Billy Collins, one of my favorite poems. I am not a Poet, really isn't like it--but it makes me think of it.

    Here it is if interested: you need to hear him read it.

    Anyway--well done.


  2. Mommy Cat- Thanks for reading and sharing your comment. I just listened to Billy Collins The Lanyard thee times. I love it! One thing crossed my mind...I shared a small musing about morherhood ( from the other side of the lanyard!) and you shared the gift of Billy Collins poem the Lanyard. We are not even! Not even close! Thank you!!