THIS IS THE POEM I’LL NEVER WRITE
–about how they kept me under the bed and sang songs to make me cry and then laughed at me until I learned to stop.
About how the only safe place was a castle where every evening we watched the sun go down while we sang Gregorian Chant and ate burnt marshmallows.
About the teacher who wouldn’t let me read beyond and the teacher who stole my arrowheads and the teacher who slapped me when I played the wrong notes and the teacher who made a pass at everyone but me.
About the horrible gray skirt, the stubby brown oxfords, the home-made prom dress in a shade of peach that made me look dead.
About how I gave birth on a ferris wheel while my boyfriend ate cotton candy and drank Coke and promised to marry me anyway, and didn’t.
About how later I married for love but the next day ran away with a Costa Rican cowboy who recited poetry and really, truly believed in God.
About how I grew old in the rainforest, how I lived on plantains and beef, and bore five daughters who died and one son who lived.
About how we finally gave up making love and the cattle ran away and the forest burned around us and now the only things that make me cry are the deaths of dogs.