A, R, T
Janine Canan
To Carolyn Kizer
As I read your poems sipping champagne,
the faucet chimes in a porcelain cup.
I look up from my couch--light glows on the hills,
a breeze shakes the pines, and sparrows sing.
A real poet, I say, and start for the typewriter,
heart lifting toward that altar.
But dread engulfs me, I sink in my sandy flesh,
and spirit plunges back into its dark nest.
But you, at three, chose the blocks A, R, T,
(though now you mock your mother's tale).
You make the poems few can hear, solemnly
spoken over the void--solitude to solitude.
