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Furry? Curry? What Rhymes With Worry? |
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| June 15, 2009
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Farmhouse in the Middle of Nowhere with a New Baby By Roberta Frosty New England. Woods. Snowy evenings. Fences. More Woods. Baby cries. Snowy days. Troublesome neighbors. Barns. More Baby cries. Lots of trees. Must get out of house. Going mad. By dawn moonhowler lowercase bang bang bang I hear the moon screaming the goddess dances with you like so many covens dancing under that screaming moon even as your maleness insists upon your way, sounding like bedsprings squeaking Daddy, Give Me a Break, Will You? By Pylvia Slath Why do the monkeys shriek in my head? Why does agony rip every nerve fiber? Why am I so freaking crazy? Why are we out of Children’s Motrin again? Again? Again? I am tired as the waves that break upon distant rocks And tired as the furies spout more Inscrutable symbolism And baffling, personal metaphors. And wouldn’t you know it, Daddy, That in the middle of my self-indulgent navel gazing, Daddy, The child develops a fever. I asked you To go out to store for more Children’s Motrin. But will you? No, you won’t. I guess I have to do everything around here. You take the baby. I’ll go to the store. Daddy, I am through. Vatican Roulette By Molly O’Brannigan And we are Irish, and we have many Irish babies, And we love Irish poetry, and our babies love Irish poetry, and we will walk with our babies on the banks of the Liffey, Where the great Irish poet Bono walked, And we’ll dream of Yeats and Heaney and Itchy sweaters and lots more babies. A Drinking Life, Nine Months Later By A. Former Hipster I named my baby Chardonnay Because without it, she wouldn’t be here. I called her father Tanqueray Because of his boozy, green cheer. I used to party really hard And it got me into trouble. So now I do the pump and dump Every time I make it a double. This is Just to Say I’m Only Sayin’ By Minimalist Modernist I have used the last baggie of breast milk for my coffee and which I should have saved for the 2am feeding forgive me It looked so milky, kind of. So whitish. And mama needs coffee. boxtops By d.d. bummings i don’t know where theyallcomefrom yet i know that they must do (some good they all say) for the school so i and you and i and we collect these little squares (on all General Mills products) andstufftheminto envelopes into the backpack they go for the little goat-footed balloon man (i mean the first-grade teacher) but at the end of the school year theytheyareatthebottom of the back pack forgotten and unredeemed. How About Going Gently Into Good Night, For a Change? By D. Lynn Thomas Just this once, can we do without the raging And the raving when I turn out the light? The endless routine, the certain toothbrush, the Striped jammies, no not those, THOSE! And the books, again, again, in a Certain. Order. Can we stop burning, raging, Going back to the john to pee One. Last. Time. You know the dark is right. You know you don’t need another Drink of water. It’s really late now. Do I have to chain you to the bed? “You look tired,” my friends say. “Why don’t you get some rest?” Because I Could Not Stop the Game By Mrs. Dickenson Because I could not stop the game— It went on endlessly— The pitching machine died and went To its immortality— The coach came out to pitch and tried To make the game progress But no one could get a hit and I watched under great duress— Dinner’s unstarted, baths untaken and yet The game goes on— Homework undone, chores piled up, All in the name of Fun— To those who worry about their end Or of life going by too quickly— Sitting through a t-ball game will stop the clock completely. Howl By Postpartum X. Haustion Brand new eyes like the clearest marbles, Blue as the sea, Unfocused but still all-seeing. You are the sum of all that’s come before you, The beauty of ten million sunrises, The light of a thousand supernovas, And, Now, At 3am, The hellfury of a thousand score Krakatoas, As you, Spawn of Death Valley’s miserable depths, Won’t stop your ghastly cries, Your spastic hiccups, And you will never Ever Ever Go to sleep, Will you? Need more Kelley? A hefty collection of her great essays, What's the Matter With Mommy?, is now available on Amazon.com. |
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