Sometimes I wonder if there's anything I haven't written about, whether I have scribbled things down and torn them off one by one like sheets of toilet paper. Used. Gone. I recently aired my wobbly knowledge about a punctuation mark (on The Deep End) and then remembered I'd written a poem about it that turned into a poem about something else entirely. As they do.
Interrobang
Inside my belly is a tiny man
trapped upside-down. He is a question mark;
an asking-for, a please, a lust for food.
I feed him fishes who will swim beside him
keeping him company. I feed him crusts
so that his hair will curl, and kale
so his small eyes will see me in the dark.
I feed him coal because that’s what he’ll need
when he firstfoots his way into the world
and begs a welcome at a stranger’s door.
I feed him onions so he will be strong
and learn how not to cry. I feed him yeast
so that he will uncurl and stand up straight
when he becomes an exclamation mark.
(Appeared in Soundzine and Equinox)
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Last edited by Ann Drysdale; 06-13-2021 at 03:25 AM.
Reason: listing publications.
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