Day 12 brings us Pamela Steele, and her poem, “To the Woman Single Again,” from the collection Paper Bird.

THOUGHTS ABOUT THE POEM

Pamela leads us into the poem with a touch of dry, “Why me?” humor that punctuates a seemingly exhausting period of inquiry, bewilderment and self-doubt. From there, the poem takes us through a moment of reprieve and nighttime contemplation, then guides us into a morning filled with images, colors, and a sense of moving on.

To the Woman Single Again

Yesterday in the public library, a man stopped by the table
where you were reading Carolyn Forche, leaned down
and mumbled something with rubber band lips that you
asked him to repeat. A ribbon of drool fell from his mouth
as he said, Are you a boy or a girl? In your best library voice,
you whispered Girl, and he sidled away, leaving you distracted
and remembering how you complained to a friend about lesbians
in Kroger who stare at you and your butch hair
until she finally said, For God’s sake, put on some makeup
and earrings! Later, when you took off your coat in the diner,
a car salesman at the counter stared at your wild
breasts and you thought, I just can’t win.

Likely, there are nights when you fear you will always be alone,
wondering how you will manage the back stairs when you are old.
Tonight, put on some Dylan, maybe “Blood on the Tracks,” and pace
from the couch to the window and back again. Feel rough wood
beneath your feet. Forget about your hair and your father
who joked he’d need a whole wall in the family room
just for pictures of your husbands. Resist applying the Buddhist
principle of only so many breaths in a lifetime
to say, orgasms or the number of photos in which you are smiling.

In the morning, put on your coat, walk through the back door
and down the stairs. Follow the alley to the street where
a row of Victorians stand in scoured yards.
See past the littered hedges and ruined Christmas wreaths.
Find the purple crocuses floating on the dry grass.
Breathe. Wait. Breathe.

**

A Poet a Day is a month-long celebration of poets and poetry, in honor of National Poetry Month. Writers reserve all rights to their work, and all work appears with their permission.

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I’m pleased to start off A Poet a Day with two poems by Peter Sears, “Time of Mud” and “We Can Help Each Other.”


THOUGHTS ABOUT THE POEMS

“Time of Mud” feels very much like April to me (and, in fact, takes us into an April day). It first appeared in the chapbook, ICEHOUSE BEACH, and later in Peter’s first full-length collection, TOUR. The poem also appeared in the literary magazine, Field.

“We Can Help Each Other” has a fantastic darkness to it, yet it’s delivered in a very playful, almost comical fashion. It appears in his most recent collection, GREEN DIVER. One of Peter’s greatest gifts as a writer is the ability to access something quite deep and meaningful through the right mix of humor and a little absurdity.

I hope you enjoy them both.

Time of Mud

The land bloats on the rain. Roads split. All things
loose are shed. Trucks park on planks, mailboxes move.
Up mountains the mud goes, colors up the mountains.
The hope is wind, March wind that gets in under
clouds. April and still no wind. Night rain falls
on the rain of the day clattering. Walk the house,
puff up windows, I’m out the front door with a howl
and the dogs sprawl the mud. On to the field
falling in and stuck crooked. I take off my boots,
take off everything, slide down a bank feet up, ride
it again. The smoothed run shines. My mud body
shines. I make a mud woman. Give her light grasses,
sail her on the mud stream, float her down
into woods. She rolls in shadows and the rain
sounds in the trees like a delicate eating. I catch
a fleck of mud on my tongue. I’m crying on my tongue.

**

We Can Help Each Other

See, I remember you said your darkness
was waking you up at night and not letting you

go back to sleep. And I want to hear
more about your darkness, really.

I can help you. We can help each other.
Why don’t you ask me about my darkness?

You know I want you to. So let me
tell you again: I’m driving along

when darkness shoots up in front
of me as if the hood of my car

flew up in front of the windshield.
In broad daylight, yes, the hood of my car.

I scream, it goes away, just like that.
But if it comes back, what do I do?

**


A Poet a Day is a month-long celebration of poets and poetry, in honor of National Poetry Month. Writers reserve all rights to their work, and all work appears with their permission.

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