[APPLAUSE]
Thank you, Wendy.
Thank you, poetry community in Tucson.
Thank you Tyler, Eric, Annie, Craig.
I feel just from the moment I got up this morning til now
I've been learning all day and rethinking, relearning,
reconsidering so much about poetry.
And I love what Tyler just said about the pleasure
and how things work.
I feel like that's just been a mantra all day today.
So thank you so much for that.
OK.
I'm going to set my timer.
[LAUGHING]
And get to it.
"Mother Love."
"Because you are not April or June or January or slush
caked boots or snow falling or melting or moving in
from the Northwest plains.
One cold coffee of a late night.
My brews.
My blade.
My thorn.
I love.
Here in the fold of a cramped journal
I have nothing to whine about, to hate, or to feel
indifferent to.
I write with the ink that is your name.
Dark blood and the droop of a pale handkerchief.
When the baker runs her hands against the smooth flour
and sugar tins with their satisfied lids,
she is not like you.
She is not your sewing machine in danger
of falling over the edge.
No.
You're at least 13 clocks in the span of two rooms,
each off by a minute or two.
Lord help me when they chimed.
And so my love is awkward and ill-timed.
Here's the oversized window you keep looking out of.
What trip are you planning?
You, never punctual, retired Secretary, you flat-ended film,
you holy shock of self absorption.
Polyester panties, cotton knit pajamas.
You paper jam.
You yesterday.
You minister of excuses.
You tardy bell, parcel package, unexpected visitor,
unanswered phone call, shout from the basement, rainstorm
static in the busted speaker.
Hearing aid headache.
Cabinet void of tea bags and measuring cups.
Passive aggressive stomach ache.
1 and 1/2 minutes too long, day late dollar short,
mother of mothers, you mother, you."