Poem I wrote yesterday but did not post.
Is utterly my own.
Far less exterior than skill,
It comes from the deep centre of the will.
—Anna Wickham, “Comment”
I hear my father’s breathless fear
lowering my voice.
I hear my mother’s coaxing ways
when I talk to boys.
From teachers, multiple and good,
I learned to hide contempt.
My lovers, oh, my lovers,
they teach me how to tempt.
Why I put out all the names
is not to assign blame,
but touch, with a deep will, the cause
of my nature’s laws
and sing, with a light heart, the tones
in a singular tune.