The Reason You Are Not A Poet
He’s yelling from the bathroom.
You move close to the door to hear.
I love your hair in my shower. I love your hair in my shower.
You exhale and realize
he will never be a poet, but you love
the way he called your eyes kettle drums one night,
for lack of anything else to say. The way he carved your
names into his kitchen table, misses his shotgun, could be
an advertisement for Ray-ban sunglasses. The way his graying hair
reminds you of Kafka, that he leaves kayaks in your
living room to dry. The way he says good morning
and good night and aches for you. He half nelsons
you into his arms, you laugh, you laugh,
and tonight you lean your head against
the bathroom door and you know
he will never be a poet,
but he’s got better things to say,
more love to generate
than Neruda ever did.
He will never be a poet,
but that is what you are here for. To let everyone know
his eyelids look like blades of grass when he sleeps,
his arms are branches, his roots
|Heather Bell graduated in 2005 from Oswego State University in Oswego, NY. Since, she has been published in Mannequin Envy, From East to West: BiCoastal Verse, Empowerment4Women, Ditch, ReadThisMagazine, Pomegranate and Killpoet, among others. She spends her time polishing boots, gardening, painting and looking brightly at all raw stars.|
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