after Naomi Shihab Nye
it’s too late to nod and become a cabbage,
a stalk of celery, or a stale piece of bread
when you’re cornered by that girl at a party.
the one too loud and too close. her breath flaking
greasy sausage balls onto your shirt. laughing
she hasn’t read a poem since high school,
hasn’t read much of anything over 280 characters
not written in a bathroom stall. the one asking
if she would know any of your work. asking
what you write about, what inspires you.
if your poetry is important. if it’s about love,
warm summer days, ships lost at sea, roads
not taken, monastery bells at twilight.
as you attempt to inch away, she demands—
a frail claw clutching your forearm—you stay
in touch. she’s lived an interesting life, sees herself
as muse for all your new songs. your eyes scan
the room for the host, whose love you now question—
the judas who abandoned, betrayed you for 30 pieces
of shrimp cocktail her wife could have plattered
alone. feeling like a leaf tumbled into a social mulcher,
you realize you simply should have said an English teacher
or stayed home.
–
Matthew E. Henry is an educator, a poet who dabbles in prose, and the author of six collections. MEH is EIC of The Weight Journal and an associate editor at Rise Up Review. MEH can be found writing about education, race, religion, and burning oppressive systems to the ground.