So.
My life is madcap, mad-dash, and madderhorn (please excuse spelling in light of tiny joke). I am so amazing, in fact, that everyone should want to be like me. I go exciting places, listen to revolutionary music, and pull wild-and-crazy stunts. Today I ate all the BBQ meatballs at the art gallery's alumni event. Tomorrow, who knows?
Since it's clear to me that everyone reading this is now panting to know my fashion, so that they can assume my identity and demeanor as quickly as possible, I have given you a picture of my shirt. Not just any shirt. A mad-cool, bright yellow, Assault Raven shirt. A Dardanelles shirt.
Exactly how, you may ask, did you, Becky, get your pink paws on such fantastic fiber?
The answer? I know the band, folks. But don't worry. Just because you, too, cannot sport such awesome duds is no reason to kill yourself. If you did you wouldn't ever get to read the new poem I've penned just for YOU, and that would be a crime against humanity.
*Ahem*
Becky Adams
Solomon Homestead, 1852
Your father sat up all night until it was over
and then wrote to your sister, sure now
that you would stick to life, and drank
the sweetest cup of coffee he had ever tasted.
Down the hall
your mother kept a vigil of her own, spun
her fleece and worked the new yarn
through her hands like prayer,
twisting in the dawn the string
that bound you to your life.
Out in the barn
your brother bumped between the cows,
their dark backs moved to lighten
with the sun, and crouched there
on a shiny, three-legged stool,
the heartbeat in his hands all pink
and warm, the milk drawn out in streamers
toward the pail.
3 comments:
I liked the poem but with most of your writing whatever I like should be cut or modified away from what I perfer, so I guess that's bad news.
I'll be your writing barometer. If I like it rip it up and if I hate it then you have a best seller.
Aw, that's not true. We both like Poland, right? And that's a keeper.
Yes, I did like "Poland, 1952" but if I sat down and read it we would quickly find which parts that are weak. The ones that I like. I'm probably the worst editor you'll ever have, but that's fine I was never born to be an editor. I'll go off and do something with science or math. Those I'm at least ok at.
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