I’m gone, practically absent from someone
else’s musts; I’m perennially pissed off,
my weather closing on imperatives,
just in time for a chartreuse set of should,
almost too late for you to tell me, It’s
time; and I’m ranting, again, I’m three tones
of blue, bluer than sky, eye; let me be.
The official preaches from his royal
seat, not wanting to fade into overcast.
Still, I don’t acquiesce. Outside, the lilac
tries its leaves, but it’s been a long winter—
my only view is blue-gray. Anyway, the
garden dirt rolls over, changes color,
complies—it wants to warm up. I, I don’t. |
Bertha Rogers is a poet, visual artist, and master teaching artist. Her poems appear in journals and anthologies and in her several collections, including Heart Turned Back (Salmon Poetry Publishing, Ireland, 2010) and the forthcoming Wild. Her translation of Beowulf was published in 2000 (Birch Brook Press, NY). She co-founded and directs Bright Hill Press & Literary Center in Treadwell, NY.
|
