Dream-fulfilling onion cooking
one time a long time ago I asked
someone I no longer know to tell me
what to write a poem about and he said "garlic"
and I did. My wild years.
Tonight I am at home. I'm not often at home
on the couch, the pod of life
I turned the tv on and now I'm ageless
if the cat has cancer it's my problem
if it's warts that's life
I heard my mother's voice
in a home video, before my birth and
she had that woman's voice they had
she doesn't now, will I have a voice
that reflects decades
It's not a question it just is. I am at home.
How many of our mothers had that voice
in their wild years, whose mother's years
were wildest, what is the most
important thing to make a play about
I'm asking for a friend. What matters now
the choices are rage, joy, fear and outer space.
Is outer space anything to me without my anger?
Can I pick just one or would I rather none?