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I always teach my students not to approach someone and just say, “so?”, but so, how about that sleepy Wallace Stevens fail? Do I comfort myself with the fact that were words on the page last night, when there easily could not’ve been? Or do I just pick up, brush off, and move on?

Tonight I’m listening to Beth Hart and Joe Bonamassa, Your Heart is as Black as Night, and it is good. Stretchy and good.

But, it is not helping me bring on the words. I’m blank, and I have been for awhile. There’s this thing I thought today that might be a poem, about my girls, and I’m going to just go ahead and poem it, because HP is nearly on his way home and it is our Friday and we should spend, ya’ know, the quality time.

So, here:

Play it, Last Time

My daughter, my daughter brought me a pen and asked me about the dancing show and why are the boys always lifting the girls and bending their knees and the girls are just kicking their legs around and twirling and I had to say I don’t know. I have to say that a lot these days. And why are the boys only dancing with girls, how do you answer small ears with network tv? Today the costumes were hot white, hot black and hot red, and when I was fluffy in tutus there was only hot pink. Nothing else was hot. She, the shes ask me are girls are boys stronger and I say girls, because we have more holes, and because we fill the gaps with strong mettle. Can I exercise naked, on the trampoline? Can I put on the green costume? Yes, yes always. Do I bristle when they say “I’lll be a good girl”? Yes, yes I do. Did I teach them “good”? Yes, yes I did. When they yell I want them to stop, but also to keep yelling. I want those voices loud and strong. I’m afraid of all I want them to know, which is probably just books and karate, like, black belts, karate and books like the wake. They are always mamas in their imaginations, but we are practicing the word “stop” already, loud and steady, when tickled, or joked, or talked over, stop is the new fire. What dreadful teachings, what wretched times and losses, this poem is turning sad and scary. For now there’s a purple mini-tramp in the living room, and a swing set int the yard, a creek and a hill, and the need to become stronger than the woman who bore them. Good enough, for now.

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Oh goodness. I have two daughters. It freaks me out sometimes. Happy Thursday, Poemfriends.

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