credula postero," or I could show you the half-dead orchid
on my windowsill; too much sun for its tender
heart, not enough water for
its lust. Or perhaps the pungent field of
mustard flowers yellowing the blaze; the rhythmic kerplunking of
gutter-rain on the pane; the first fallen autumn
leaf on the man-made variegated stones that encircle
the maple in the spiritless
strip-mall plaza from which it
fell; or the wind clattering the bamboo chimes hanging
from the awning of my mother's porch ... oh ... perhaps
you get the idea. Every poem (idea) needs
an image (or two) to hang
its hat on—embodiment of the abstract of whatever
it is the poet thinks (s/he never knows)
the poem is about, even knowing a poem is never
about any thing. It's all metaphor,
this physical expression of whatever it is. Don't tell
me about your broken
heart or your dream of peace—I've heard it
all before; it means nothing to me without
the tabby at its latest mouse-kill or the bloody
remains of a stillborn's
placenta. Shut up about
how you feel—let me run my own fingers over
the seams. Let the picture paint a thousand words, the scent of it
fill her senses, the sound of it ring in his ears long after
the words have gone the way
of all words:
bloody, wind chime, orchid, bamboo;
gutter, leaf, placenta, sun;
tabby cat, mustard field,
raindrops, stone ...
hat hooks I believe in you.
