It's only when I do something like this do
I realize how heavy the poems--
unremittingly heavy-- I hope he can bear up and--
this is a poem called, "Growing Up,"
and it's in three parallel sections.
The first, as it's about growing up in three--
at three different levels of your life.
The first, a child, the second, a teenager,
probably in the third, finding yourself stuck
in the middle of your life.
Each growing up brings its own slap in the face I guess,
"Growing Up."
"Finally, you meet a kid who smirks when you talk seriously,
who punches you for nothing, and if he's meaner than the others,
you admire him, take him home, and he kicks your backside
all the way.
In the playroom, he grabs the patch dolls
with their chafed cheeks and puts his hands
around their necks.
Strangely, they fit.
You wonder at this, and you thank him if you still can.
Finally, you find a body softer than the others.
When you push into her, she contains you perfectly whole.
And when her clear voice urges you homeward, you name her love
and present her to mother who frowns triumphantly.
She frowns back on and on like eyes in the mirror.
Finally, you face up to her angry and bored
and push into her again and find the tongue hard and glassy,
but not without taste.
Finally, you find a hole deeper than the other holes
and with more appetite.
You toss into it bad memories, table surrounded by inquiring
relatives with bad teeth.
You toss into it good luck charms with their greasy fur
and wise grandparents who knew the future and the past.
Soon everything tastes salty and old."
The ground gets slippery.
So you pull back if you still can, horrified,
and if you can't, you leap in married or finally the boss.
Worse than that, you remain on the edge
lying still and smiling like the Buddha, fatter and fatter
and the hills in the distance perfectly arranged.
It's not really all that bad.