Oh, I am nothing
if not agreeable.
I come from a long line
of non-boat-rockers –
or is it boat-non-rockers? –
I would never want to offend
anyone
by the wrong terminology
or even the wrongly tilted
eyebrow.
So I listen
to those I love
or at least used to love
and they dump words
that enrage me.
But I will not be enraged.
I summon a smile
but it refuses.
I turn away.
One day I may shout
Wrong! Wrong!
but not today.
Today my boat is still in its mooring.
Moored to my desire
to be loved.
Loved, not at any cost,
but just a little cost
to my integrity.
That’s not so expensive
I think.
Tag: Poetry
MARCELLA
But enough about poetry.
I’d rather read the letter
sufficiently enticing
to elicit the invitation
to Italy.
Perhaps you enclosed a recent photo.
Your literary skills – or so the story goes –
inspired a true proposal
of holy matrimony
until the already-wife sent you packing.
This could have been literal.
“Please pack your punctuation,”
them being the literary set.
But I’d prefer drama,
A confrontation of recriminations.
Well-worded threats.
A year before, my boyfriend’s mom escorted me out
via sharpened scissors.
How infinitely more romantic
if the poet’s spouse
swung the shears.
Did you love him for his mind?
Did he fuck you for your body?
But, hell, you ended up with a book
and a reputation.
But enough about poetry.
With Resistance 