The Poetry of Karla Huston | ||
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IT'S FOOLISH | ||
to think someone would write a poem
about me, want me to send photos, whose colors aren't quite right, not with these tiny creases around my mouth, this tipsy eye and mud colored hair—a picture that might inspire beauty and soul. Today Oprah tells me that if I look inside, I will find the person I am, not teacher or mother or wife I am supposed to be. All I have to do is follow ten simple steps to spiritual awareness, buy a book, and make thoughtful lists on good paper. I could create a new story of myself even when all my principal sees is a machine who can keep a group of seniors quiet even on Friday, during fifth hour, in a room with a breathless ventilator and a closed door. Still I want it, a love poem, maybe, with words hung on uneven lines and the poet wanting me more than a whole world of whiskey or moon or envelopes filled with ash and stone. |
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Previously published in the chapbook: Flight Patterns, winner of the 2003 Main Street Rag Chapbook Contest, 2003.
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