Dear Poet,
Last night, you glowed on pulpit at east side NYC bar where wooden tables kept us still like trapped sentences. My mouth remained open even beyond my last sip of Brooklyn lager. As you sung, I took the risk and savored the possibility of your notes skydiving between my teeth or lunging onto my tongue and remaining until nighttime mug of peppermint tea. I’d recognize you anywhere, poet. Beyond your height and thinness. Beyond your whimsical approach to hairstyle. Your smile bulldozes every wall in its sight, increasing the square footage. Poet, last night you told me you think of death. You think of death as often as me but I did not tell you this. You think of death like one might think of meals. When will I eat again when will I die? You told me childbirth keeps you here and I grew desperate to search for something on this earth that keeps me here. Coffee, I exclaimed. You spoke about the power of bodies, natural pushing, natural drugs like the tabs of acid found within the contours of the brain. Who would want to trip in a hospital? you announced. Why are we like this? Because we are poets because we are women because we want more than we can fit on our plates or chew at one time why all this sadness? I called my mother tonight and listened to the sound of her forgiveness waft against the crackle of disjointed phone connection. She told me she isn’t sad anymore. I contemplated asking for her pill collection to cure me too. Children have not grown inside me yet. I have not engaged in any marriages or divorce or hedonistic fantasies beyond the ones I was paid for. After all the poets read, I walked downstairs to the bathroom. Engaged in self-gazing. Searched for my glow. Some think it is the sun and with summertime approaching won’t we all be shining? Poet, you are so beautiful in your required sadness and I want some. If emotions were like trading cards, I’d give you all of mine for just one of yours.
Aimee Herman 