when i was nineteen i wrote a sonnet about this guy i met.

remember your hands
for an unlikely advisor

'I picked you out,' he says, 'from over there -
You're beautiful! You look like me.' Presents
a flower made of napkins. 'Lady fair,
in that much black you must be fucking tense.'

'I'll fix those hands,' he says, 'let's see your wrists -
These muscles, girl! You write too hard.' And he
is pulling verses from my arms. 'A fist
can't make you anything, you wait and see.'

'I know your type,' he says, 'all metaphor,
all misery. You're young, you're strong. Forget
the drama; it'll only make you sore.
Your romance, honey, hasn't happened yet.'

I sag in my chair; he grins as he stands.
'Write something gentle. Remember your hands.'


Ma said...

Every time I run across my copy of this (and it's tucked away where I don't expect it) I smile. A gave.

Amid Privilege said...

My hair is standing on end. The universe says something coming.

maggie said...

we put that in the Mind's Eye!

kidchamp said...

i think that was the first time i'd ever seen one of my poems in print; you did me a solid, maggie.

Amanda Moo said...

Yeah you did.