Kay Middleton

Because

Because I want to be Virginia Woolf

That’s why.

Words, sea creatures with tentacles

 wrap my ankles and drag me

beneath the water of my despair.

Pages, poorly veiled suicide notes

inked with imitation tears

cut from the daily paper

and trimmed with pinking shears.

But I am not.

I make rash, disparaging remarks

about the holy place

or virginal brides, embroidered

and trimmed in lace.

I abhor wealthy’s vulgar spending

and the folly of the poor

I apologize only when the morning

exposes my error.

My repentance is never adequate,

not for my deity

nor for myself.

Because you are words.  That’s why.

You are charismatic.

and egotistical. Sometimes brash,

impetuous, often right. 

A worthy cohort.  One tenth of a legion.

This is not of significance

any more than the path of migrating

bird or the timing of solstice.

Any more than pale fish in Mexican lacunas.

It simply is. Fact and whole.  It need not change.  

I try to be open to the rhythm of the universe

as much as I am angry about her injustices. 

I am a rebellious coward. A painter of walls.

Reader of books. I sleep alone. Another

time I will tell you how I find you tender.

I will thank you for your gentleness.

Not now. Today, I am a comet,

a girl in a yellow dress

at a party, alone on a journey

without a suitcase.

Because I want to be Janis Joplin

That’s why.

The notes are the only lifting for a while

and then they let go and come crashing

down splayed on stage or hotel beds.

Beneath sheets of music are poorly

veiled suicide notes ,warped with drugs

and tears, torn from fashion magazines

trimmed with pinking shears.

The smoke doesn’t clear and the record

is the thing we all desire reaching ever

higher and higher while we pretend

it does not matter, rent or clatter.

Except the truth, the singular definition

of truth, the passion and the man

that takes a piece of my heart and leaves,

lost and alone, a woman fulfilled

only when I learn to forget.

How my guitar cries.

Because you are music.  That’s why.

You are selfish and egotistical. Yes, you are.

You dance. You lead and then you depart.

I have accepted that, always.

It is not important.

Any more than the path of migrating

monarch or the timing of equinox.

Any more than the pale blind fish begs definition.

It simply is. Fact and whole. It need not change.

You need not change.   I will try to be open

to the rhythm of my body as much as I am

still angry about her miscarriages. I am tenacious

and negotiating. I am a conflict of struggle

and satisfaction. I am a ball of fire with a tail of pain.

Another time I will shout how I find you silent.

I will thank you for gifts of passion. Not now.

Because today, I want to be Joplin or Woolf

But I am only a woman or a comet

in a yellow frock and golden slippers

at a party alone

on a path without a map.

Why?

Someone often asks a writer, "Why do you write?"  Because I cannot not, I tried not writing, and failed. 

This poem is an answer to the question... or it is a seed.