Poet’s Choice
Honorable Mention
Margaret Rozga
I have many names. I am holding myselves
together. Barely.
The gardener gets herself
dirty. To be soiled is to be. Dirt
under the fingernails can be scrubbed out. If she can’t
find her nail brush, I use an old toothbrush.
The grandmother talks fractions, decimals,
percentages with the 12 year old grand who is
a whole number.
The editor seeks to create
an anthology that is geographically and racially inclusive,
goals somewhat at odds. I do not
seek out stars.
The sky-watcher learns
that a new moon
has no face. It is all dark side.
First. Then an edge before more light.
The poet
feels she is doing nothing. She writes
every morning. On the seventh day
she re-reads the week’s worth,
taking a phrase or more from each day. Sometimes
these snatches add up. They are drafts
from which she may be able to craft a whole poem
or interesting mash-ups. Interesting to you. To
myself as second person.
I am busier than ever. Sometimes
now I drink coffee minus cream. Long ago I gave up sugar.
The impossibility of we keeps her moving forward.
The citizen
knows her city’s history. Some of it, the part
she was part of when she was part of something.
The activist
now takes pictures of the march from the sidelines.
Those on the march, third persons, no longer third person, first
person plural. Numerator and denominator equal. Almost
equal. Numerator minus one.
And this is not half the story.
For coherence
I keep a separate notebook.
Margaret Rozga
PHOTO: TJ Lambert