I love this womans poetry.  And hers, hers, his, and theirs too.  I can’t write like this, I’ve tried.  It feels forced and affected, which isn’t the point of writing poetry.  Instead, I collect other people’s  poetry that, when I read it,  makes  my insides sigh with the satisfaction of finding words to express what I feel.  I am so thankful for poets.  Otherwise, I’d feel scattered and clunky inside.

Listen – a poem by Maya Stein

Wear orange, her arms whispered. Grab the handrails,
said her neck. Take as long as you need on the downhills,
her knees advised. Her shoulders were hoping she’d
turn up the heat. Her tongue inquired about a sip
of ice water. Shut off the television, her eyes wheedled.
Throw out the old sponges, her elbows urged. Buy a proper
sweater, cajoled her solar plexus. Eat more kale, her skin insisted.

But when the time came,
there was no mistaking the call
of her bones.

Remember who you are, they cried.
Remember what you are here to do,
they pleaded. Remember there is still
so much time left.
And then there was no choice
but to listen.


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