KIRSTEN SELF

Scraps 

She says, write poems of contentedness
 I had an orange at lunch.
 The children play the piano.
 A pileated woodpecker flies between bare trees.
	Even the cat croons for more. 
I want to see the women I love
laughing at a table 
eating rich plates of food
drinks spilled
bowls strewn,
but 
these women I love 
are no closer to this

Thing

than I am. 

You see,
where one heartbreak poem ends
an angel gets its wings
which isn’t true,
but we keep going
keep listening, and
for free, the men across the street
are making concrete music
with no thanks at all.
And I am trumpets 
and harps 
in bed at the same time– 
	left unsoothed
by settling for the scraps.
 
It’s silly to ask for what she asks. 
Even at a distance.
Even if you think very hard 
and breathe from your belly.
Even now my parents are at the kitchen table
in Missouri
arguing-
empty breakfast plates listening 
while I am away.
If only more 
could be piled on 
to stuff their mouths.
And there it is– 
	I can’t help 
 	but want more
 		 		to fill me.