By Alison Rollman
A Poet to Her Poetry
Inspired by Anne Bradstreet’s “The Author to Her Book”
I create an ice-rink fantasy world
With the flick of my pencil,
The snub of my burnt-out, blackened eraser bit,
Of my cereal crumb computer keys.
And you, poetry, are my creation –
My figure skater of sorts –
Into a world of cliché, angst
A perfectionist’s nightmare;
A world hazed purple and finger-painted
With the innocence of morning dew,
The saccharine tang of strawberry jam.
More dramatic than anything that I have ever known or seen
To be real.
I read you out loud, always,
My voice rolling over the rivers of each r,
The flightiness of each f,
The suggestive flirtations of each s,
The suspense inherent in every comma and apostrophe.
I relish the sound of your syllables
And their pulse against my teeth.
Each line break
Is a delicious yet fleeting afternoon nap.
I dictate you, my poetry, to myself,
Describing things that I have never felt.
Molding, creating, handcrafting,
Envisioning in entirety
My ice-rink fantasy.
A frozen, gleaming castle
In which you, my dear poetry
Along with the King of Dreams in the Land of Hyperbole.
Syntax, your servant,
Your lowly slave.
The Heated Teakettle
My fingers come together
In tight balls of salt –
Seething in synch
With the pressure
Furrowed in my forehead.
My back is erect and perpendicular,
Ringing with tingles of alarm.
Quivers of the past spit though my viscous lungs
Like cars cresting
Across a water-frosted freeway.
Grudges that have been festering
Since the creation of human fault
Suppurate in the pit of my gut –
Now boiling over,
As the heated teakettle screams
In rhythm with my body
And the lightning of my heart.