Lucía M. Polis 30 years
the poetry of

This is not a poem about sawing two feet off
    a rotten beam.

This is not a poem about making notches on
    all four sides and smelling
    that sweet-scented stuff
    fall to earth in gauze.


This is not a poem about shivering in rain.
This is not a poem about
                        adjusting your arm
                   this way or that
                        and sawing
                   the beam, hard—

                   the beam that you thought
had supported everything or maybe just
this, here;
                   the beam that you believed
would be impossible to saw through
the beam that once felt so solid

                   but   then
                   crum
                   bled
                   to shivers
when all you wanted to do
was clear the moss.


This is not a poem about saving the stump
to burn in a fire,
                        soon.

This is not a poem about starting
    or keeping a flame
    or weeping for you.


This is not a poem about what you could
or could not be (we
    can can
                only as much
    as we can ken).
            And you know everything.
            And they know everything.
      So why then?


This is not a poem about sitting in a mudroom
on a broken chair,
nearly nude, not
writing
           a poem or not
writing a poem for you.