Poem

I want to tell you this secret so bad.
I have been keeping it in
the privacy of my heirloom because

I thought it would be best to pass
it down through the Human Genome
Project. But then I reconsidered because

it's not mandatory to recreate
the species through..duh... fried chicken.

And then I reconsidered my position
on mating with the Human Genome Project.

And then I reconsidered my position
on the DNA of the Peoples of Iceland.

And then I reconsidered my position
on my heavy use of the word 'I' as

well as the fact that I write these poems so quickly.
Writing a poem quickly is unmotherly

and unwomanly. Well, maybe it's
okay for sluts.

I don't know. You decide.
I'm leaving it all to you because

I am passing everything down
like my fat cells sliding through

the body. I have been known to write
terrible poems about

anorexia and fat cells
and bones. That's all in my past though.

Have I been eating you ask I don't
know have you Sandra?

I microwaved the Styrofoam.
That is my secret intrusion. It was so globular

and funky. It was like an airplane
to Mars or Venus w/ tax documents

from 1994 and 1995 and 1998, 1992, 1973, 1943, 1964, 1975, 1954, 1955 and 1996.

They will tell you that toxic chemicals
get all over your hands and feet

when you cuddle the microwave but this
is disingenuous. You should cuddle

the microwave when you
are lonely and you are longing for

brief miscarriages.

They also will tell you other things
that are simply not true

or truisms--you decide.

Someone ask who "they" is now.
Someone get a priest in this room

immediately. Sometimes my
son asks for corn. He calls the peas

corn. He calls fried chicken
corn. I'm talking about my dead son

now. He calls every food imaginable
corn.