My husband has taken up knife throwing,
All our trees have giant wooden targets roped to
trunks pretending it is an art installation
I am pursuing the sport of poetry throwing
aim sestinas into the lake, six points
for each pallid fisherman I impale.
The two of us have acquired quite a reputation
Which helps with privacy.
Next we will try badminton
You have to be dainty
In the dark morning all groggy and barefoot
Because stepping on a dead mouse
Is a terrible way to wake up
Especially if you haven’t had coffee
You shriek with gritted teeth
And hop on your good foot
Straight to the sink
You don’t get over it right away either
Each time you see the cat
You give her a dirty look
Full of recrimination.
She looks back at you
like mouse wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
1945 celebrated first birthday, father got out of Army;
1950 wrote a poem about Bobby Snowflake who lived on a cloud;
1955 skipped rope;
1960 dressed in black, lost virginity to man from Haiti, went off to college;
1965 married a book store clerk from rich family, taught art;
1970 had a baby, listened to Velvet Underground, lived in a trailer;
1975 left the commune, married new husband;
1980 attended law school, wore patent leather heels from the thrift store;
1985 opened a practice, fucked the judge;
1990 had another baby, discovered bondage;
1995 went to parties, talked on the phone, made money;
2000 broke off online romance with German fellow, stayed married;
2005 mother died, father died;
2010 retired, moved into house on the lake, children getting old;
2015 listened to gulls and geese and tree frogs;
2020 wrote a poem about a cat.
First, announce you
believe in free love.
Then, lose your virginity to a man you pick up on Bleeker Street.
If it’s a little disappointing don’t worry
just try harder
and make noise.
Go away to college and sleep with 27
fraternity boys, 13 townies and one girl.
Make sure to tell all your friends
and the dean.
If sex is still disappointing don’t worry
just keep it up and
be noisier.
After you get kicked out of school
sleep with anyone who asks.
Tell people you love fucking even though
really its disappointing
and being noisier doesn’t help.
Start seeing a psychiatrist to get amphetamines;
tell him about all the sex you’ve had
in detail.
Be noisy.
I fill it
all people do is drink
don’t they get tired of being thirsty?
they should copy a cactus
or better yet
a dry dusty dromedary.
they need to fill their own pails
for a change
pump their own water
see how they like it
water pigs
snuffling at the well
pawing at the seep
no more glasses of water for them.
Cooking when you are anxious
And distracted
Is a recipe for failure
I have proof
Right this minute
Looking at the spreading pool of batter
On the oven floor.
I have made biscotti a million times
Sometimes the almonds weren’t chopped fine enough
Or the logs were misshapen
But those were minor difficulties
Today is different
I was nervy about a big family visit, rehearsing
comments in my head for a meeting tonight
Worrying about a late package, so maybe I
added too much maple syrup and butter
Maybe not enough flour, perhaps I accidentally
invited a malevolent spirit into my kitchen.
Actually I think that’s it.
Not
Never
My father-in-law shot himself
I wasn’t there
Just in the same town
He left a business-like note
Covered the basement floor with a plastic sheet
Stood in the center
My husband found him
When he went for a visit after work
Really you do not want to go downstairs
And discover old dad
With blood and brains dashed around
Even if it’s mostly on a plastic sheet.
You will never catch me being so thoughtless
I would make sure the cat finds me first.
I am hallowed by heat, can’t beat
that lustful desire to swallow love whole
feed me more, I implore
a glutton knows no less
let it be a lesson to you
no forgiveness
my greed comes from flagrant need
always more, you bleeding whore
you feeding sloth I called
in wrath, because i saw red, and blue, and yellow
In your path
i don’t envy his wife, jealous as i am
just take a knife to his throat
jam to his heart
I am proud to be a part
loudly crowing my success.
This is what I am, what I want
bird bones and
feathers
the calling of wind;
a cage
swinging wild in the storm
filled with crows.
When mourners come
singing their sorrow
I sing back
whistling through the teeth of my shrine.
It’s coming down hard
After two weeks of dry scraping weather where
Grass turned to wheat stalks
Flowers toppled with thirst and
Even the weeds looked bad.
Today rain daps and ripples the lake
Plays fast taps on the porch roof
This storm
Started down south as a hurricane
Ran out of gas here
Stalled by the mountains and trees
Now just
Soaking into the ground
Making the grass turn from brown
To green
Like a fucking miracle.
