Adam was sitting
in the blue recliner—
his eyes, glazed donuts
of dissatisfaction—he
held a beer in his hands,
and he wept.

Was your fall
cruelest to you,
because you knew
perfection and true
happiness—or am I
the worse off, because
I can’t know what to
aspire for—what to
want?

Your crying is
not unmanly—you
have seen your sons
**** each other—
witnessed hate in those
you raised with love.

And Eve, your
blessed Eve, she’s in
the kitchen with an
apron on—she doesn’t
smile at you the way
she used to anymore.

You can’t trust her
like you once did,
since ember innocence
died out, but you still
love her.

How it hurt you,
Adam, to witness
her anguish—first
in childbirth then
at child’s death—
Eve used to think
she was beautiful, but
now all she sees is
stretch marks and wrinkles.

Still, Eve is the
only one who
knows your pain
of loss—she comes
up to hold your hand,
and a tear leaves her
eye—she misses Eden
too.

The minimalism of
a bobby pin—only
holding what it
can—but no woman
will underrate its
steely arms.

Let me be a
bobby pin in
the hand of
God—holding
up the drooping
soul of a friend.

Small, but
usable—never
worthless, always
given purpose.

I often wonder,
sometimes, if I’m
pretty.

My mother and
friends will tell me
it’s a silly question,
but is it? And what
is the answer I’m
looking for?

I know the way
my hair, in russet
mantle clad, springs
down my back is
pleasing to the eye
(at least to mine).

I know the way my
tall figure—yet not like
a statue or a pillar—
asserts itself into
the open air, similar
to a curved vase—at
times smiling, at times
the sudden night.

My hands, perfect
for piano playing
as grandpa always
said, are long stalks
of wheat that reach
toward heaven, wait-
ing to be reaped.

My eyes, green
when choleric
and hazel when
stable, are the
exclamation points
and periods of
my face—who
could interpret
my action-prose
without them?

And my face…
my face…what
do I think of you?

Are you pretty?
Even beautiful?

I can answer
this question
on my own—
without a lover’s
flattering tongue.

Face, you are
like my heart—
blemished of
course, but still
clean and pleasant.

There is indeed
a beauty in your
length and modest
smile—a forehead
too high like my
pride—but still,
balanced—but still,
pretty.

Love, I don’t
know what to do
with you—we sit
at a table, me and
you, and I examine
your face and hands
like a child who I
once knew, but then
grew up.

I’m trying to
decide whether
I want to rent
out one of my
brain-rooms
to you, just in
case I’ll need
you to entertain
the love of
someone else.

I mean, you’re
under my roof every
day—whether I
like it or not—so
why shouldn’t I
house you in my
thoughts long-term?

But love, it
bothers me how
you always want
me to pay attention
to you like some
god, but you’re
not—I worship
you unwillingly
and habitually.

When did I let
myself become
so attached to
the way you
smile and wink
at me? I should
have walked out
of that bar, and
gone home and
prayed—but I
choose to flirt
with the dreams
you made for me.

Love, I don’t
hate you, but
I wish you
would stop
acting like you
can fix my
loneliness, when
we both know
all the kisses in
the world can’t
replace my God.

I’m sending
you on a vacation,
and when you’re
ready to be patient
and holy, then
come back.

Instead, kneel
behind me at
the altar of Christ
and make yourself
His servant—be His
bride, and you will
be requited by the
one who made you.

To the people
who will reject
me—I am not
mad. I understand
that there are
writers better than
me—that is ok.

I think I am
trying to teach
myself to learn
that rejection does
not imply a lack
of something—it’s
more about taste.

Perhaps you liked
the way the poem
before mine played
with lines like a
sticks—stacking them
higher and higher
to become one
great fire work.

Or maybe hers,
the girl you read
after me, reminded
you exactly of the
time in summer where
you would sit outside
and popsicles flew
down the slide of
your chin—you were
so innocent and smiley
then.

And me—
here I am, trying
to have a dialogue
with you when I
should be working
to reveal some mystery
of the universe! I
beg your pardon, Sir
or Miss.

This is only
the prologue—the
dumb show before
I run behind the
curtains, but not
to be the Wizard of
Oz—no booming sound
or great green lights
will shoot from my
mouth.

But, oh—here’s
my cue and I
am already in front
of you. (I wasn’t
ready for that, were
you?)

There’s a bit of
lint on my black
shirt, and gosh
these heels make
me six foot! Yet
here’s your face, and
you are sitting before
me like my unborn
children waiting
for a story.

In this moment
I will live for
you—see my cry
and think—but as
soon as this poem
is over, I will die,
and wait to be
resurrected until
the next poem.

If I ever commit
suicide, it will be to
the sound of Swan Lake’s
finale, but all the rest of
the audience around me will
only have heard the pas de trois
and so will be confused
why the dancing swan
suddenly shot itself.

White girls can get stuck too,
the same way that no money
sandwiches you between two
slices of dreams you cannot bite
into, because we cannot pay for that
school—stuck like peanut butter.

I want things, but mostly
I want to be able to stay at the
university and learn so, someday,
I can teach others too.

Teach them to love good and
truth and not care that they are
not the businessman or engineer
with a steady job.

All they—all we—have to do
is be willing to clean the bathrooms or
flip the greasy burgers if we have to.

Hands that are working and honest
are always good hands, no matter
what they do.

When I tell people I love English
and writing, the man or woman instructs me
to pick something more practical—be a
technical writer, a reporter, an advertiser.

But I love my poetry, and no one can
ask me to sell my happiness
and design for a nice house and a
maid who cleans because hubris
has rusted my joints.

I am not a hero or a martyr
for words, but I am a woman
who would humbly scrub toilets to
feed her children, write poems at
night, and be happy.