DINNERWRECK

-

 DINNERWRECK

No one can write poetry

with the smell of overcooked

lentil soup crockpotting

in their nose.


It’s a concoction so strong

The thought of it will send

the middle child to 

toss his cookies 

while his sisters wail 

And you, the resident adult,

are force marched, house to trash, 

atrocity in hand.


No, no poetry tonight. 

The best you can do

is stretch the windows wide open, 

bury all the nostrils 

and pray for a better smell

by tomorrow.

Coffee Button

Send Sarah Emma Ruth $5 for coffee via Venmo

Popular Posts from this Blog

Timely

-
Timely We begin with unmitigated contact, then permanent separation. Our growing away from each other is divine, yet is personal too. Everyone knows her before she becomes my teacher. My mom is -capital I- Involved. Tempus fugit. Yes, Ovid, for us too. The growing apart lays open an ever deepening ocean between us. The kind into which we both want to dip our toes. We wave our hands frantically from each shore. I see her in her Trump hat, her fear of MS13. I think she can see me here, but she’s refusing to read my signage. Margaret Johnson says “Time is a fixed income—“ Mom budgets on the back  of Sunday’s prayers. “—The problem facing most of us is how to live within our daily allotment.”  We begin believing ourselves inseparable. Are we, alas, wrong?    I n response to the prompt "Time and Again, 11th Annual Getaway 2004 "  by  Peter Murphy  found in his collection called  Challenges for the Delusional , edited by  Christine Malvasi . ...
to the poem »

"There are few nudities so objectionable as the naked truth." Agnes Repplier

-
I n response to the prompt "Your Name Here 10th Annual Getaway 2003 "  by  Peter Murphy  found in his collection called  Challenges for the Delusional , edited by  Christine Malvasi .     "There are few nudities so objectionable as the naked truth." Agnes Repplier (my first crack at a pantoum) The story of my name comes with a fee.  It is not something I would easily confess. "Little princess," her love calls me, my mother, the genetrix, who puts it to rest. It's something a girl doesn't just confess, see? "Emma?" My classmates laugh in jest. The genetrix makes a deal over tea. She promises two nannies their names she'd progress.  "Emma?" my classmates laugh in jest. "Me?" "Which is it?" my poetry teacher would egress. She promises two nannies their names, so I've three. She answered herself- "Ruth,"- her own address.  The story of my name comes with a fee. Three whole names. Quite a fancy d...
to the poem »

Field Notes

-
Image
Field Notes Aging at Thirty Nine             reads “you’ve got a romantic evening ahead,”  and thinks of Thai ice cream, and her vibrator. Aging at Thirty Nine             wonders when Life’s Sudden Rise is coming. “Is this the wrong stop? Something delay the line?” Aging at Thirty Nine             finds out her kid’s wart cream also staves off wrinkles. Say out loud to the pharmacist, “score!”  Aging at Thirty Nine              says yes to fast food— she’s on her period.  She’ll do her best not cry while she waits in line. How old was Napoleon when he said “obscurity is forever”? Aging at Thirty Nine              wonders if Glory’s fleeted, once and for all.  Aging at Thirty Nine               cuddles her kids like human stuffies, loves clean socks, makes herself warm tea. A...
to the poem »

Make Believe

-
  Make Believe I've been calling myself a writer again,  though I've no publications of note. My only readings are the public library kind, where anyone who's willing can try.  I've been calling myself a writer again,  even though I finished the draft five months ago,  printed it out at three, and have only now begun to edit, with help of a guide.  I've been calling myself a writer again,  like a kid wearing mommy's glasses,  in an adult-sized sequined gown,  some gigantic silver shoes. The word is outsized on me,  disproportionate, this close to a lie but in a way that to the mirror I can laugh, and say "cute."
to the poem »

Delightful the Pug

-
Image
  Today my kid came in with 8 illustrations and a lot of panic. “Mom, put poems on the back of these!” She was opening a “shop” in her room for her little brother and sister only moments later. This is how today’s poem, Delightful Pug, came to be. Enjoy! Delightful Pug Not all dark eyes are beady, or meant to inspire fear. These dark eyes send ripples of warmth, a kind of softness that touches  before their tan fur coat.  All life force  an strength, this pup wiggles  its butt, for lack of a tail. Delightful, the pug welcomes us home. Art by S. Grade 2!
to the poem »

Let's Connect on Instagram