Those of you who know me well, know that I am a recovering poetry MFA (I quit, but must struggle daily). I spend precious time I should be reading and writing school stuff stealing away in small corners consuming and producing poetry, and then denying it.
In the spirit of madame zenobia, who has recently been serving up some good stuff for my addiction, I offer a poem that came to me via The Writer’s Almanac this morning. Good stuff.
Upon My Offering Her an Easter Chocolate, My Wife Screams that She Won’t Let Me Make Her Fat
Later, it may occur to me
that inside a door frame is, they say, safest
place structurally during a tornado,
other than any available underground.
And later, after the night perhaps,
when earth’s sun shines on a cold spring morning
and the house is quiet,
I will reflect inconclusively on what I’ve done
and what I may deserve, and whether I am a villain.
But for now, a punishing moment
when a woman turns in a chair
to a man extending a candy egg held on the axis
of thumb and forefinger and subtext
explodes, for that moment I weave
a bit foolishly on the threshold of an open passage,
blinking carefully, drunk,
absolutely and silently indefensible
as the existing universe that I can perceive
narrows to a radiating point,
then, widening, takes the shape of a glove
crafted for life’s work, one that may slap, caress,
or close quickly to a fist, as the hand desires.