reflection of quiet.

My advice is this: stay on the outside, looking in-
don't forget to think about the past.
Look about the words that are inside of books,
and try to shelter us, when we speak about dinosaurs,
and Egyptology, and find ghosts in old buildings.

They think they are sensitive. They don't know anything
about words, and how they are spread on pages-
they don't know anything about geniuses, what they think
and why, because they can't think, they can't bleed
like open flowers-

some things are left unsaid, and the nastiness, the badness
that is inside most people has been quieted, and the old man
who is my teacher has risen from the ground, from the distant
grave, the silent that is his name-

The Plum.

The plum awaits to be eaten.
I wonder what the plum thinks about that.

I wonder if the plum thinks about anything,
like
my last boyfriend, whose name was Wilfred,
whose name was foreign to this land.

The plum came from a grocery store in Waterford,
Michigan.

My sister-in-law's mother lived
in a house across the street from the grocery
store where I bought the plum,
old memories flicker against the mind.

The plum is covered in fuzz,
I sit at the kitchen table, pick off the fuzz,
and let it fall into the trash can.

The plum is not entirely eaten.
I open my mouth and take another bite.

Another hour passes. The sun is covered by shadows;
no storm in the distance. No one comes to check
on me. The clock stops ticking.

Always Tries, Beethoven.

My mother asks me, "What do you want from me?"
My brother thinks I'm too old to play poker.
My sister is in Florida, learning how to be a nurse;
my stepfather is busy being in the army. I don't want.
I am. Shakespeare wrote this in his plays;
Mozart played this on his piano, back when he was a boy
and learning how to be famous, before Beethoven stole
the spotlight.
My boyfriend always tries to make it up to me by being
a hooker, by bringing home strange women who can't think
for herself.

My mother asks me, "What do you want from me?"
When I am stressed, I hide in the bathroom, reading The Atlantic
Monthly and Times magazine.

Sometimes, I give old men second chances.
Other times, I send them messages through my absence.
Everyone thinks I have a problem. My problem is everyone else.