Monday, April 6, 2009
My mother asks, "Do you ever think
in poetry?" She says she does
sometimes, though she doesn't
know about form. It's so dark tonight.
Starless, almost void, and we are driving home.
I tell her I do think in poetry
and she seems satisfied. I do, after all,
have an advanced academic degree
in writing and now I have proven I use it,
even if only internally. We barely talk
as we cruise along the freeway, mother and daughter,
so similar, even, as it were, in thought.
It's Christmas and we are a family reunited.
Only in thought do I admit I am the same as her.
I ride, she drives, and I think in poetry
until it screws my face up into a wad of discontent
and my mother asks me more than once
if I'm OK. I say I am. I'm probably not lying.
The poetry keeps me honest.