Assignments

I have been doing a poetry back and forth with Evan, which probably no one cares about, for good reason, but here is this:

I asked him to: Write a poem about falling, include the word "earnings." My feedback: It's very Margaret Atwoody, which I love, and also very you.


Earnings

The whole body draws a salary -
hands, ribs, knees, hearts -
and if you refuse to pay,
you discover the body is a union
and has been planning this strike for days.

Listen to me, please:
Pay the heart first.
Count out the coins.

No one asks more than the heart,
I know, and so often you'll be tempted
to pocket the extra, save it for the mind
forever roaming, for the hands that feel
so good in the dark, for the acute angle
of the shoulder blade that digs into
the mattress at night, pleasured.

If the heart goes broke,
it will not simply go on strike,
go cold on the picket walk,
protest as loudly as a joint
or a ligament. No, no, no:
it becomes fragile
and then it falls. It falls
far, and fast, but unwisely.
And when it falls, it will easily
break, unable to make a landing.

Pay the heart first,
it earns its wages most.
Don't let it fall so easily.
You'd think it was your servant,
trapped there among the viscera,
among the hug of lungs,
the sternum paid to thicken
with credit of milk over years,
among the blood that runs
faster and faster.
But you'd be wrong.

If it falls, it will be that much harder
to pick up the pieces and rebuild,
retrain, and start over.
The salary goes up every time.
I know because I've paid
a king's ransom to keep things together,
to keep from falling,
falling,
falling.


My assignment: (1) Write a short poem (10 lines or less) that is an ode to your favorite food ingredient.

Come kiss me, quick
the sharpness on your tongue
delicious, rich, and seeped
with garlic afterbite. Let
the hunters come:
mosquitoes beaten back
and vampires that sneer
and sulk away. We ate
all the cloves
we are roasting in it
bold, exploring, bursting
to feast on each other.