Well, now that Tara's on a blogging hiatus, I'm not sure if I'm going to get any feedback at all. (Where are you, Amy?) But I guess I'll keep posting poems for my own satisfaction. Talking to one's self has never hurt anyone. I suppose.
Writing has been a bit overwhelming lately. It isn't the usual dilemma I've been dealing with--I'm pretty sure I'm meant to teach/write and not go into veterinary science--but I'm having a hard time concentrating and getting all my proverbial ducks in a row. Graduation is looming. So is the presentation of my thesis. I need to arrange my travel plans. I'm eyeball-deep in manuscripts I need to read. The world seems to be crawling with an abundance of writers; at the same time, I'm feeling isolated and small. Where the hell did I leave my confidence? I used to keep a little baggie of it tucked away somewhere...
Here's a poem I wrote last night. The evening started out innocently enough; Tom and I were sitting on the back porch reading, listening to the Braves game, waiting for the sun to sink. Enjoy it, yes?


for our tenth anniversary I tied a wolf to your back
while it was sleeping. I tightened the bonds and mentioned
this wolf may have once been silver or bluish gray
before it made its life in the muck of the world.
we were in love. you were very patient
and when I finished the wolf was secured
his front paws perched on your shoulders.
you asked what I meant by it. why, I said,
this is to guarantee the coming of st. francis
whenever you might need him. he spoke to wolves, love,
he will speak to you. very thoughtful, you said,
pulling a small box from your coat pocket.
I opened it like it might be my last drink of water
but out came a single black ant, plump and vicious,
quick to bite, and as I sucked my finger you flicked the ant
back into its box and took my face between your hands.
love, you said, may you always know where to find food.
I knew then we would die together. the wolf began
to wake and was slobbering on your ear, faraway the voices
of frantic villagers rattled into the air. we turned
to face the forest and wait for our saint to arrive.



Tara, where are you? I feel such pressure. This poem was...strange. But I like it. Maybe because I like imagining you securing a wolf to Tom's back. And your baggie of confidence might be tucked away in a secret drawer somewhere, like Bryan's secret baggies containing other substances.
karenh said…
How in the world do you think of these things? I like it. Very creative.

I see now why I haven't heard from you. You are busy and at a crossroads. Know that everything will turn out well.

I think your baggie has grown so big that it is now a grocery bag, so go look for it in the closet.

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