John Hollander said, "I want my poems to be wiser than I am, to know more about themselves than I do."
You’re the Weeds
It was a frustrated phrase
The end of the line.
A step not to take. It came
After much agitation,
Like plastic covering furniture.
When mom went speechless
She fumbled the ledge
For the beating stick. One half
That was aggressive
Was not as strong as the half
That wanted to leave it be.
She would become a Martha Graham dancer
With a prop. Flying around the dining room
To pantry, and kitchen, my twin
And I knowing she could only catch one
Or get tired and give up.
I look at my aging face
A scar below my left eye.
Is that a consequence of escape