The flowers have arrived.
One of the friends has arrived.
When she arrived, we picked flowers.
Soon two more friends will arrive.
And the flowers will just keep on coming.
“The OY! of Cooking” sold so well
in my imagination (the book
that taught readers how to cope
with ugly kitchen mishaps)
that I’ve faux-written a second
cookbook, a self-help cookbook
available in the self-help section
for your browsing convenience.
It’s titled ”Regrets and Vinaigrettes”
and it’s on sale for a limited time only
in various independently-owned bookshops
in the contiguous United States.
The chickens are just heading in
through their chicken-sized door
as I challenge spring in the car,
tires hugged in mud in the bend
where the fast-driving neighbor
does his fast-driving damages
of ruts in the road. I am not yet
thirty and wearing the remains
of red lipstick as I walk through
the door of my home. My man’s
on the floor with his toes to the sky
in a stretch and the teapot is still
breathing steam. Imagining other
couples is like imagining history:
I can’t do it at all without the help
of a movie. In the film of my days,
my man is healing himself
with patience and I am healing
my self with something like hope.
On a bad day I can’t even fight
off my rooster; on most days
I’m pocketing eggs with a song.
To think that I was alive when this was written. To think that Mingus was alive. And William Matthews, too. Happy National Poetry Month; may your day be filled with the digestion of experience!
(Poem scanned from “The Open Door: 100 Poems, 100 Years of Poetry Magazine,” edited by Don Share and Christian Wiman.)
Some people didn’t even want to be poets
but their moms were poets or they know famous poets
so they get really published. I’m not jealous
I’m just observing. I have really big hair
which I’m proud of and impresses even me
and I’m the one it grows on. Now in the first comment
about poets I’m not impressed with not trying
and in my second comment about hair growth
I’m quite taken with what happens with no effort.
I guess what I’m learning about myself is
it’s easier to grow hair than get rid of jealousy.
But probably everyone knew that already so
what’s the point of poems anyway,
hair is better.
We’re planting our seeds. We’re
sowing them in. We’ve made
our selections, we’ve sawed
the boards & nailed them,
we’ve scarified the seeds
who need a little scaring.
Some seeds are smaller
than any item I’ve ever
collected. Some seeds
are blocky, brown & sharp.
We’ve showed them where
they can live in light
on the the dining room table
where the bulbs are big
and the view is right.
No one’s perfect, as
they say–I disagree. I say
a seed is perfect, through
and through. It’s got all it needs
to do inside of it, it knows
and does it in a mere
two days. The seeds
are growing on the table.
The seeds are chatting
with the moon, rising greenly
with their necks to greet her.
(gif by misha m johnson, the most talented photographer in the upper valley)
What does the sun taste like?
An egg yolk.
What does the moon taste like?
What do the stars taste like?
Salt and pepper.