Draw a Stubborn Life

Make paperwork and bureaucrats

won’t bother you. Disguise rebellion

as obedience—don’t you know, it’s easy

to be invisible unless you wear

leg irons or a purple robe.

Secrets are strong, impossible

to fight—even all-seeing mothers can’t

fathom our deepest thoughts. As hours

flow together, select the thought

to cherish. Go on alone.

When you meet strangers, disarm them

by mumbling some of the words. The third beer

at last is choice. The first one answers thirst,

the next subdues the craving, and then

beyond your appetite are the possibilities.

I Don’t Know How to Give a Party

Some people know how to give a dinner party.

They grow vegetables in fertile gardens—
weed them tenderly, water them faithfully,
speak to them with respect, harvest them
with reverent attention, and prepare them
for the table with humble gratitude.

They pull peaches gently from their tree
at the peak of their fragrance,
and serve them in ceramic bowls.

They pour wine and toast at the right moment,
spreading delight with tinkling glasses.
At the head of a table, they welcome a circle of friends.

* * *

I can’t give a party.
I have no guests—
for when I call myself together,
the parts resist.

I know ten girls

who don’t obey
who jump and spit
and chase giraffes
who stomp and glow
and throw away
the fancy stuff
that catches wind
and threatens rain
the fiery red
of ragged pain

I know ten girls

champagne and tough
all set to blow
the ceilings off
past stew and mew
invite the zoo
restore the clown
before remorse
dress down argue
for disarray
I love that too

I know ten girls

Writing a Poem

On one of those shimmering autumn afternoons edged with sadness because it may be the last, I climb leaf-powdered lanes of the development where the ski resort failed. Nearing the Victorian house overlooking it all, I gaze upstream at the river, then enter the kitchen as if it is mine. Crossing to windows facing the valley, I can feel the gaze of a neat and smiling woman in medium heels and a powder-blue shirtwaist with French cuffs whose hands clench words that belong to me.

The narrow oak floor-boards of the old kitchen barrel high in the center and slope toward the appliances. The clock’s ticking accelerates as I founder. With my pen I pry open her clenched fists.

After a first career in mathematics, JoAnne Growney returned to poetry. Her latest collection, Red Has No Reason, is available (2010) from Plain View Press. Growney promotes math-poetry connections via a blog at poetrywithmathematics.blogspot.com. She teaches an ongoing poetry workshop at a neighborhood mental health drop-in center.