Friday, April 07, 2006


They Have Each Other
J.B. Rowell

The poem that's asking to be written
will basically say I suck
at being a mom—so of course I don't
want to write it but if I don't
then I can't write anything
else—you see—so I'm letting
this one loose hoping
that you—reader—realize
that I'm not really a bad mom
or—at least—I could be worse
but this is just one aspect of me
launched onto the page
and then held up
like a butterfly Rorschach
that could also be
demonic—it's just
the way you look at it.

Now—I actually don't want to get
into all of it—how
I've always wanted to be
the stay-at-home kind
but that's not the way it worked
out—and when I'm finally
with them I fail miserably:
let them watch too much TV,
yell, lose patience—and no—I don't
want to play trains on the floor
one more time—damn it—but then
at times—I surprise myself—
cook dinner even—iron linens—
play baseball—go for walks—
and sometimes I say the right thing—
I think—and here's
where the poem turns

into the unexpected aha—to be
expected—this is why
this poem calls—life can be lost
in the fall between expectation
and this moment
as I type and they serve each
other hot, hot tea in tiny cups.


Blogger Amy said...

I love the way you end this poem, with the tea serving, with a moment that should not pass unnoticed and happens while you're typing.

2:03 PM, April 10, 2006  
Blogger J.B. Rowell said...

Thanks Amy - I appreciate that. You are so observant and thoughtful, you make me look at my own poetry in a new light!

6:53 PM, April 12, 2006  

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