word poem:\\ at the writers’ conference

At the Writers’ Conference

I overhear a guy reading
a mint poem to another guy.
He reads, It’s not just God,
but all of us who create . . .

Maybe this is not verbatim
but I move along, don’t wish to be found
eavesdropping, and think . . .
xxxmaybe for the millionth
xxxtime, a simple inkling,
xxxsince I remember and forget
xxxand remember and forget,
xxxcreating and destroying orbs
. . . that man is a creature who steps
into a malesuit every morning.

(And now I think: A man
is just a woman with a penis.)
Here is this particular man,
steeped in boyish nakedness
showing another man a poem,
fresh, longing for him
to get it. This is not gender,
this is not sex.

What do I know of men really?
Just that they always do
and always will surprise me,
as again and again, amnesia overcomes me
and I forget

. . . what? Was I a man in a past life?
Is this a good-enough metaphor
for what I am trying to show you?
The moment of seeing myself
in this man-poet is not less
than any hidden wellspring.

I have my own foibles.
It would not be false
to call me a misanthrope,
trying, failing, trying
to recover, uncover, be found.

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2 Responses to word poem:\\ at the writers’ conference

  1. Teddy says:

    This is a wonderful poem, different but with your same evocative style. More emotionally open perhaps?

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