Treatisita

Because I could care less these days

about poems or writing poems, 

they tumble from the tummy easy-

like, which is weird because

both my kids were ripped and torn

from me like MacDuff was 

from his mom.  Maybe they'll 

be cops, or thespians, when grown. 

Also, people talk about 

language like it has its own

address, somewhere foreign but

recognizable, like

Canada. I don't get

it. Language is like skin 

or air. Wear it. Breathe it in.

It matters when it keeps us here.

 

Shaken, Not Stirred

by Christa Forster
(in celebration/degradation of National Poetry Month.)



In the end the swivel sticks
did nothing for me, casualty
of gin. Whatever cherry darling
I believed I was betrayed
me from inside out and all
my songs were sung, my rings rung,
Fun no longer fun. Options
gone but one: trundle in
the earth. Children by the berth. 

Husband throwing dirt. Black shirt.

Now the shaking keeps me steady,
Yes, it does, dear Teddy, yes
It does. A pounding from my feet

via calves, knees, thighs,
through my cooch busts apart
large white rocks hectoring
My heart with sound-proof strategies,
diminishing returns, orgies
where no one really ever came
anyway: my mark finally clear.

April -- National Poetry Month.

Where l attempt to write a poem a day in celebration (or is it degradation?) of National Poetry Month.

Hades

by Christa Forster, April 1, 2009

Who doesn’t love a river, dark
And deep, the sights unseen
Along its shores – eyeless Oed,
His punctured queen and mother,
And other dead celebrities
Like these? Sure it’s stuffy
Underneath the earth, hard
To breathe and difficult to walk,
Too. Throngs of endless sinners
Seek relief – they all want you.

The river’s got its own roots,
But unlike trees, its roots resemble
Fangs, or tendrils of disease.
Tubers tumor in the current,
Tunneling into traffic jams
Near the raw maw of infernal
Pangs, a heart-like mouth, full
Of fire and despair. O wonder
You’re above it. Look, a dam!
Perk up. And comb your hair.