NaPoWriMo #13

Mangy Looking Fake Fur Boa

It’s not as funny as I thought it would be
strutting through town
in a mangy-looking fake fur boa.
Jesus had better luck
walking the palm carpet.
It’s not as if we weren’t both scouting
for a miracle, holding our breath
praying for an award-winning
lease on a new life, fully carpeted.
In whose house can you bow
and scrape the feathers off your eggs?
On whose cross can you bear
to wake up dead each morning,
start all over again?
This particular dawn I rose
alone, determined to win your love.
Love making, the slogging of ingredients
my day’s dogma.
I vowed to be the son
jerking his hook to the right
so his father can hoist the prize
perch, mount it on his mantle.
I pledged to be the girl less pretty
the blond with roots
letting the handsome man
take her mother’s hand.
But you were just a lover.
Feather boas, even skinned
from a holy goose
have no power over your bleeding
heart. Your bleeding heart
a metaphor for a mangy-looking
fake fur boa. The kind I just threw off.
I can’t function in a messy world.

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Lucky number thirteen. A truly bizarre poem, begun with the phrase "a mangy feather boa," overheard while litening to my mother read Captain Underpants (I am so ashamed) to my son. I had the intention of a sort of love poem to my husband who just left on the train, who I was kind of grumpy to all day. We are on vacation visiting my parents and he had to go back to work. How would you feel if someone wrote you this sort-of love poem? I'm not sure it would be all wine and roses...

In other news, somehow my posting has gone awry. Friday I went to the coffee shop and posted the patchwork poem (NaPo #11). Yesterday, I posted the white sweater poem (NaPo #12). Somehow it's not showing up correctly. I have not missed a day. Nope. Not one!

Clayton Harrington has read the bible three times. Another snippet of conversation from my mother's house. That's a poem, eh?