Tuesday, April 3, 2012

You guys are killing me.

   What's that you say?  You don't like poetry?  Suuuuuuure, you do.  You just haven't given it enough time to assimilate.  Trust me.  This one might do the trick; it's got heart.

All Heart
Amy Herring

I want to write a big poem, a fat poem, a poem whose breasts
bulge out of her dress. I want a womanly one, with huge hips,
who wedges her way between tables of men
clunking down baskets of bread and mugs
of dark beer. I want one who throws her head back
unafraid to show her yellowed, crooked teeth
when she laughs.

I want one you could seek out in the kitchen,
off-kilter from all that tavern noise, knowing
you’d be enveloped in soft cleavage
and flour. She’d cup your powdered wig to her chest
and understand.

I want one you would think of
with longing, long after your carriage
has pulled away, and is swaying gently
in the warm autumn night, taking you back
to those elegant, thin-boned poems
that swirled before you
in a confusion of ballgowns and flawless skin,
which lie lifeless now, in books
tossed by the side of your bed, unloved,
forgotten, half-read.

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