Not about the Moon
for Edna St. Vincent Millay
Paris, or New York?
Summers at Vassar
That one gorgeous, dog-eared,
dogwood Summer.
Our flushed cheekbones
brushing up against those pink
peonies, and breathy groans
For both of you, everything would grow.
first you Thelma, then Edmund,
while I was writing about the moon,
you both at your leisure begged,
asked, would the truth come very soon,
Not your place, lover, not your place.
I, angered, with an upturned brow,
stormed off to weekend trips in the Village
“Don't tell me what to write about!”
I'm very good at saying no,
I told everyone to call me Vincent
everyone said no, to me,
and no one ever listened.
Confessions, Confessions, Confessions,
I just do not have the time.
There is not enough paper,
and there is not enough rhyme.
Tickle your toes. . .
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strange tree, your flowers look like badminton birdies.
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