Poetry refuses to enter my everyday paper.
I wait with my knees under my chin
My white skirt tucked under my bottom
and I feel like a child waiting for the rain to fill my bowl.
At fifteen i wrote my first poem and was utterly proud of it;
the words came to me regularly like a sixteen year old's menstrual cycle
stronger as the years went by, curves and mounds appearing in their right places
love-filled anthologies of men and lovers
of summer affairs and sex
It simply does not listen now, the stubborn woman that she is.