We all need the sun today,
yesterday, tomorrow —
all summer in the now,
and I resent being told
to provide it.
Put on your makeup,
you’ll feel better.
Wear a bra.
Be creative.
Move.
Be nice,
can’t you just
be nice for once?
For my birthday
this year, I woke
up in tears, fired
up the percolator,
and wrote some
obscure metaphor
that only (maybe)
archers understand.
I’m not sure
I even get it.
Target missed.
The cupcakes
I baked for myself
and my husband
were rocks.
Jack called and we sang
Happy Birthday
to each other
in the key of hysteria.
Outside in the rain,
worms celebrated.
I read something tidy
about how what you write
can never be finished until
you’re embarrassed by it.
What a relief.
Everything I’ve written
can be put to bed,
tucked under the covers,
each word nodding off
on greasy pillows of shame.
Nitey-nite.
My mother
wanted to see
what I’d be like
as an old woman,
and well,
this is it:
I am not nice.
The other night
when I let my hair down,
a stink bug droned out,
pinged its body against
the mirror where I caught
my folded face.
My middle finger
is swollen.
This poem is
finished.
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