Tuesday, July 13, 2010

In Seeing A Review Where My Earlier Poems Were Called Wild

IN SEEING A REVIEW WHERE MY EARLY POEMS WERE CALLED WILD

I think of the years in a
marriage, living like a
nun while readers
imagined me a flower
child, a hippy. Haven’t
you found it odd how
someone pegs you by
how you dress? Some
thing you wear on a T
shirt, a flip phrase they
take as who you are?
And haven’t you wanted
to fling back how you
were shaking inside
your cowboy boots and
a mini, going up to the
mic but few could tell?
Think of the dowdy
librarian (in glasses of
course, hair in a bun) in
too many movies who
becomes a sex pot once
her hair flows over the
back seat. No wonder we
have the saying, “let
your hair down.” When I
used “fuck” or “come”
in poems, I wasn’t doing
either but some readers
would rather not know
that, want to make me up
as they suppose and tho I
cringe, I know if I wear
leather pants on the metro
I get men gluing their
eyes to me, can be invisible
in my raincoat without my
hair down. The wildness
you don’t see waits,
coiled, camouflaged
as a cobra

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