Tuesday, March 29, 2011

my baby wears a top hat

On Advice

Perhaps if I knew how
to turn my head
to preen my wings
and had no thumbs or knees
to beg upon.
Perhaps if my ears
were holes too narrow
for words to enter
and like the mallard
I wore a white
and priestly
Perhaps if I could decide to fly
then do it. Then I might
know that thing you say
that water does,
or a broken heart,
the way it can
itself beading up
and falling off like water,
like water off a duck’s back.
But I have seen the way
that water rolls
like wine
like justice
down his back
and I cannot forget.

Sometimes when we give birth to a poem, it becomes a little person.  It grows its own legs and hobbles away, its meaning obscured even from our own understanding.  That is what happened with this poem figuratively and (semi) literally, especially when I centered it on the page.  It emerged "collar" and all and proceeded to wander into heresy.  Perhaps.  I hope not, but I can't tell from here.  We have such high hopes for our progeny. 

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