a poem a day for a year #2

by Amy Turn Sharp


poets are badass

they get to sit around and think back on old lovers and

the way dappled light moves across a strong chest

smiles and moans

how the room smelled of purple flowers

how your black hair became a blanket

 

memory recall

that make us subconsciously stroke our clavicle

shift our pelvis

ignore the world for twenty seconds

and sigh

 

poets can slow time to a murmur

type right across the family dinner table

about how much love they still hold

inside of their hearts for strangers

for ghosts

they can type history and then drink coffee and eat eggs

and do crosswords with their kids

and make love to their spouse

they get the most cake

 

and if we could be baddass like them

we would write poems in our mind

about the life we could have had

or did have

or will have

or want so badly

we would type hot white words

 

 

and somewhere right now in a tiny bedroom

in a typical house

is a young person who has no idea

that someday she will tell the world about

how it felt to be pushed up against a brick wall

in a rainy country

snagging pantyhose

roughing up elbows

and smiling

and laughing like a hyena

 

she has no idea that she is a true badass

she's just eating blueberries

and paying attention