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
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
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.