It’s Just a Fucking Poem
When I read my poem about the shaving kit
my former sister-in-law gave me
at my high school graduation –
Claudette, three years older than me,
hadn’t yet married Mark then,
but they were engaged –
comparing it to a doctor’s bag
and also to a Medieval reliquary,
packed not with safety razor,
shaving cream, toothbrush and comb
but pills, blood pressure cuff, stethoscope,
on the one hand, crucifix, saints’ bones,
bits of clothing, on the other
Rebecca Wertz, one of my classmates,
complained that I had to choose
one or the other.
“There’s just too much pressure.
The poem can’t carry that much weight.
Choose one metaphor or the other, not both.”
Our other classmates piled on,
sharks sensing blood, chum in the water,
getting their participation points from Nadia,
the teacher, who likewise nodded sagely.
You’re not allowed to respond to comments
in these poetry workshops,
just nod and be grateful,
revise, rinse and repeat.
It’s why we’re here, to improve our work.
But goddammit, this was a poem
about my brother’s failed marriage,
the shaving kit itself a metaphor.
Nobody said even a word about that.
Horror Sleaze Trash 