Where I find my poems
|Mona Lisa Muse
A poem cannot be pulled like taffy
From the cracks in a classroom
Ceiling. Poems do not grovel
At anyone’s feet, they feel no need
To be recorded.
A poem cannot be pieced or quilted
Together. Your words do not fit with mine.
No, poems are the fierce and ravishing aunt
Whom you revere
But shrink from.
She is standing at your door,
Her hair is streaked with grey,
But she’ll be the first
To tell you that, really, it’s moonlight.
She wears a coat, black
Like deep water or midnight,
And she just smiles
Mona Lisa mysterious,
With those Stormy-river eyes and says
Goodness, child, can’t you see it’s made of dreams?
She only ever wears stilettos, because really
She isn’t that tall
Today they shimmer like secrets,
And they’re sharper than a pencil point.
They tap a staccato pentameter,
And her knock is a tiny hammer on your skull
So you’d better get that door,
Darling, because this poem