Call to Poets

There’s an afternoon
when a wind hits town lifting
leaves, old newspapers,
small children.
It’s then you better spread
your wings or those duck feet
will be permanently glued to the floor.
Let’s all write new poems.
Let’s write good poems. Let’s write
damn good new poems.
Let’s go out in a boat and not
come back till we all write poems
too good to show our mothers.
Let’s balance our boat
on the dorsal fin of the great unsung
truth and write poems to make
the neighbors wonder what we do
in the strobe light of the black
and white tv, poems that will
crack our teeth, give us a rash,
make our tongues sprout
wings. The water’s choppy
out here boys, let’s try to
keep our balance. If I strip down,
will you? If you can’t do it,
we’ll have to throw you overboard.
If you can’t do it, we’ll have to
tie your feet together. If you can’t do it,
we’ll hold you under till your eyes
bulge out.
Brothers, write me a poem
that’s cannon ball heavy,
write me something sinister, something
fragile, something Bessie Smith
would sing.

—Deborah Bogen