You ask me to do the poetry dance
as my hands are tied but never free
diving into a dangerous chance
to unwind the words of the sea
make them twirl
bend to our whim
let the pain unfurl
for I am always aching for him
that illusion of hope
living on the edge of Broadway
refusing to hand over that rope
mixing up my night with my day
my poems with reality.
Let us dance and swallow our moving words
like we did on scraped knees way back when
embrace the sky, fly like birds
for we are far to gaze into each others’ eyes
too close to sleep a whole night through
toss and turn me with burning lies.
I am not like them. I do not scrub
bathtubs until I am heart broken.
I do eat men while I walk to the cafe.
I do not see dust
I see poetry.
I like the rhymes
distracted by the underlying chimes.
I am in love with the man
who stole my heart
yet the dance in my soul
stops moving its feet.
I read all the dead poets
it is the only way I can have my coffee
they are my cream and sugar
the poets that live
but those folded (yellowed) pages
in my Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry
are my only salvation
from men such as you
who can eat me alive.
You can caress my hair
and my soul at the same time.
I do not make grocery lists
search for discounts
make the bed
I am not the best wife
for you will find me under the fan smoking
with my notebook
on the kitchen table
and the meal long forgotten.
I like how he snores, though
wakes me up and begins my writing
finding comfort in the sounds around me
while I pour out my ink once more.
The only way to continue breathing
is to dance
let the words tickle my sex
encompass my fear
rip open my guts
but you should stand back
because I am always at the edge of seventeen
(as Stevie Nicks sings)
and poets like you
inhale my words
while poets like me
drown at Cosco.