Poetry?

I went with Deena to a poetry reading in South Orange this afternoon, two towns over, in the Skate House by the duck pond where Deena skated as a girl. There was an open mic and with her encouragement, I signed up to read…and did, one of the few poems I’ve written in my life. One of the open mic readers was a woman who said she’d moved to the area years ago from Woodstock, hoping South Orange would be like Woodstock someday, and being part of the Watershed poetry series made her feel it had come true to some degree. I was glad to be part of it, too.

Feel My Wrath

Achilles is a dog’s name.

Snarling, terrifying, mistreated mutt, frothing at the jowls, pulling on his chain, taught with fury.

Ready to take the whole tree with him, he eyes my throat.

Fear my wrath! I do – I fear my own: the disinhibition, the breaking of my own rules, the shame that follows, the unmasking of my unarticulated nature.

His owner yells – too late. He’s coming, dragging the cherry tree from the corner of the little semi-urban park with its bench and its square of grass and its basketball court. Too late

to run. The last things I see are raging fangs and golden eyes and then a branch covered in pink blossoms.