One good thing about being able to write poetry is you can make one for a friend or loved one. It beats shopping, any day. Here's one that I wrote as a birthday gift to journalist and poet Alma Anonas-Carpio:
BIRTHDAY SUIT
the nude. the hair. the crude
mount. none of them here--none
farm-bred. their domesticated cattle-
hood, though--well, that's as real
to her nostrils as the rich clump
of earth she remembers holding
in her tiny hand: memory or dream
or desire shed like
moist garments inside the opus dei
confessional--thus disrobed was she.
the priest on the other
side frozen but for a moment
before yelling holy hell for her
to get out. she was nakedly
whispering
to him, "i'm the earth
mother"
before slipping away.her fingers
flick the ashes of recall and
fantasy. she's going back later.
she's getting back, getting back
every bit fate snatched without
ceremony: the ailing husband
rescued. two daughters put
to school and sleep. the
slumber of a solid world
keeps her on toes' edge but
not for long. the train will
rumble her way shortly; metal
electric, for now, in this
century, so reliable.
it's a victory, by night, she will
see--in front of their
bedroom mirror--the nude,
the hair, the crude mount.
beauty that makes no sense but is
kind.
the real life no confessional
pose like this will know. ever.
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