I see my breasts reflected and think boring,
which coming from me is truly a slur. At least
the parts running quick down time’s hill–
the various hillocks, the rills, the plum veins–
are, even as they unsettle me, interesting.
Dismay, after all, is one variety of alert
attention! Then of course I reprove myself;
it’s unseemly at this hour to hold it against
the dears for being unremarkable.
They’ve done everything they were asked
to do, half of which were magic. They’ve moved
through life without complication,
without causing stirs, without distressing
shirt buttons or rousing mistrust in my friends.
I’m trying to let it slip fast out of my hands–
this penchant for radiance and flames, the spectacular,
for whatever is going on up there in the night
sky–and at least by candlelight be satisfied
with a humble plot of freely given earth.
Mary says this specifically about her poem:
I imagine that Triggerfish readers might have a chance of understanding that it’s about more than a body part…
To me it’s about accepting ordinary-ness, which applies to lots of things but probably most especially to the writing of poetry…