Friday Original Poem

Yesterday's poem kind of ate me up inside when I read it settled on the couch in Gina's rented, Michigan house.  There are times when you feel open enough to receive a poem packed with that much truth, my moment on that soft couch was one.  The content was utterly relatable to me but the form was powerful too.  The repeated lines, separated by stanzas and building fury until finally, the two most telling lines join together to truly condemn the writer.

I wanted to play with it a bit and see if I could mimic the form to come up with my own version of self-help.  It's not nearly as good as the other (whose author I shamefully failed to acknowledge because I forgot to write her name down while flipping through Gina's poetry books.)

Stand in a slice of moon

The hum of an ice-maker your only companion

You became a mother, not a singer

Sticky peanut butter and sweet jam

The whir of a shower kicks on upstairs

Work the bread dough between your fingers

Slugging along the slick surface of your floor

Fat folds of skin wobble and linger

You became a mother, not a singer

Across the street your neighbor stabs the ground

Informs the world he is a right-winger

Work the bread dough between your fingers

At the nursery school you see the girl you wanted to be

Your mind’s eye a dead ringer, but,

You became a mother, not a singer

The oven will be hot soon

Roll your neck to loosen the ache

Work the bread dough between your fingers

You became a mother, not a singer