National Poetry Month: The National Poetry Map. Find out what’s happening in your state.
Himself: He took the morning off. Plumbing wars in the afternoon. Meeting at night. Today: News of the next interview on Thursday at 1, and the plumbing for the half bath was done by 2 today.
Herself: Took the day off.
Reading: “Too Many Magicians,” Randall.
Gratitude: G, sunshine, folks in the program, peace and quiet.
He didn’t, mind you. But I did. Here’s a poem I’m working on for the chap book.
Her Name was Mary Jane
I’m not ready for tubes and wires
all clamped together
draped like Christmas garlands
over your flaccid limbs
I’m not ready for suction sounds
as your teeth are brushed
your soul is brushed
your words are brushed away
I’m not ready to see your hair in gentle plaits
to see all wrinkles vanished
all years of struggle
wiped flat, clean, clear
I’m not ready for nurses asking
personal questions I cannot
where your daughter is for instance
never asking the more important things
like how long you have been sober
or what have you written
I’m not ready to find email from
the daughter who hates you
still talking of paperwork
coming home to pull the plugs
to quiet your continual seizures