poem-to-go
after Naomi Shihab Nye
by BEE LB
once ordered a poem like a taco from the poet laureate of new jersey
or maybe new hampshire or well— one of those states over there.
he was on vacation when i texted, or that’s what he told me
after i’d waited a day for his poem reply. i’ve never waited a day for a taco
but that doesn’t mean i wouldn’t. i guess it depends on the line
or what’s in it, the taco i mean— or who’s in it, the line i mean.
i don’t remember what the poem was about but it was worth a day
of suspense. to him it must’ve been worth the interruption
of his vacation or else he just needed somewhere to put it—
the poem i mean, the words inside it, the thoughts that made it.
i know the feeling. i write on demand, though you’re hardly demanding.
i’d write about tacos if i knew what to say. maybe the sad curl of lettuce
left a day too long, or the orange sheen of grease dripping
down untucked ends of the tortilla, or dawn trailing
my sink as i strain the grease down the drain. listen—
i live in an apartment, it’s not my fault. i love to create issues
for my landlord! i’ve written any number of poems
about problems with my landlord and i’ll write
an infinite amount more before i call it done.
do you want a landlord poem? it’s #3 on my menu,
subtopics include: rent hikes, rent control, mao being right,
mold on the ceiling of rented bathrooms, the terrifying moment
after the first thunderous knock of the maintenance man at the door.
i mean of course it could be a maintenance woman or even a maintenance nb
but i write from experience and i’ve never experienced that! i mean sure
i can make it up, can picture a beautiful butch in overalls making my heart skip
as she knocks on my door to fix a leak or a busted sink or the holes in my screen
but look— i love butches! i’d never deign to imagine one working for my landlord
of all things. if you want a butch poem i’ll write about my
my straight-passing roommate who i tried and failed to flirt with.
who i made a fool of myself in front of. who hung the shelves
my plants live on, who didn’t properly support the right shelf.
and who didn’t take into account the angle of the sun when deciding
the right height. who i think of any time i see the slight bow
and feel my lip curl. it wasn’t all bad, she also taught me how to
hang curtains— though i haven’t put my knowledge to use without her.
her empty room is blindless, the apartment-given rack stacked in
our— i mean my— utility closet. it’s probably grown cobwebs
by now in the dark and i’ve made a pact with the spiders
in my apartment that as long as they stay out of sight or at least
out of reach, i won’t kill them. that’s not why i haven’t re-hung
the blinds but it is one of the factors i weighed in deciding. not that
it was really a decision but even inaction is a choice, you know?
BEE LB is the facsimile of a living poet; a porcelain pierrot with a painted face. they collect champagne bottles, portraits of strange women, and diagnoses. they've been published in PULP, Dirt Child, MOODY, and Landfill, among others. their portfolio can be found at twinbrights.carrd.co and they can be found at patreon.com/twinbrights
