I wish you were writing this poem
about those two days you hid in the woods,
partially scalped, your legs broken, your two kids
with you, hiding from the man who promised
to kill you when he came home.
I wish you were writing this poem
about the places you go in your mind
when the men mount you and start
their furious pumping.
I wish you were writing this poem
about the day you knew for sure
that you were not beautiful.
I wish you were writing this poem
about the look on your child’s face
the moment you slapped her
for calling you Bitch. And another
poem about the moment after.
I wish you were writing this poem
to the woman who slept with your husband,
asking her everything you know
you will never understand.
I wish you were writing this poem
about the way the light hit the empty room
just after you packed all your things to leave,
and how in that light for a moment
you thought you could stay,
loving in that moment the room, the potential,
and still you knew you would go.
It would not comfort you, this poem
that you are not writing, would not make
one thing better. Would not fix, not heal,
not redeem nor transform.
But something would happen,
something unnamable and mysterious—
and from that broken, torn,
shredded place, you might create,
surprising yourself, a little more space.
You seem to create the background of a story I don’t know, a sad and tragic story, though it doesn’t seem to matter. I mean, I’m interested in the story for the sake of its reality, but the poem generates its own reality. The mantra works nice, each stanza leading to another way, but those last two say to mean that all the wishing won’t change the reality, but I love that space you find at the end, like a resting place. So fine, for poem and subject. Odd title, leaves so much unsaid. But a fine poem.
Hey friend, the title is a nod to Adrienne Rich, and her poem by the same name, which is the inspiration in part for my poem. She addresses the poem’s reader … “I know you are reading this poem …” is her refrain.
It was a very different kind of poem, obviously, for me to write, and felt risky for sure to put out there …
Well, in my (sometimes humble) opinion, the risk paid richly well. What’s the Uncle Robert bon mot—No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader? Whatta lushly dark surprise. Surprise us again, please.
ditto on the harsh story left untold; on being curious about it; yet realizing knowing the precise story isn’t the point, nor is it necessary. ditto, too, those shifting (sifting?) final two stanzas. “The poem you’re not writing wouldn’t make things better—except they might, in unexpected, unprepared for ways. Or, not ‘better’ per se, but certainly, changed.”