No Wonder (another poem—about why I'm so grumpy)

A favorite Ani Difranco song, "Not a Pretty Girl," goes like this:
"I am not an angry girl
but it seems like i've got everyone fooled
Every time i say something they find hard to hear,
they chalk it up to my anger,
but never to their own fear."

Well, I AM an angry girl. I don't know why, but I am. And when I get my period (like right now), I'm also a sad one. Last year, during a particularly angry mood and sad period, I watched the news. I heard a story about a woman in Pikesville, a mostly Jewish area, a nice neighborhood in the 'burbs, who walked across the street to a store. It was only about 10:00, I think. I imagine she went out to get some ice cream. And maybe some pickles.

She was raped.

She was pregnant.

I cried for days. And then I wrote this.

---------------
no wonder

like the pocket of an old coat,
worn from use, from fingers
feeling their way around loose change

for six cents, too many crumpled tissues,
children’s toys kept safe, cough drops,
and keys that poke the threads,

my head can’t hold all it should,
all you say—that i look pretty today,
that dinner was good.

the nice slips through, too fine
for the mesh of mind unraveled
by frets and worry and world.

and you slip through—the hello kiss,
the weekend plans, i love you,
the frog you held for me to touch.

all is gone, lost amid the taffy
of criticism and complaint,
the lead weight of slammed doors,

the smothering clouds of flowerless
holidays and goodnight kissless nights,
gummed up works of fear,

chunks of doubt, thick loathing, want.
Surely—certainly—with all that glutinous
mess of matter, a smile could take hold,

a laugh could catch, a pat on the back
reverberate a moment then stick there,
glued to grief and insomnia,

wedged like a shim between an airplane flight
and another sleeping pill, tangled up in a child
stolen from her bed, a pregnant woman raped,

the disappeared, yet another priest fucker,
the arabs, the israelis, enron's murderers
and thieves, the god-damned president.

well is it any wonder i don’t remember
the last time you laughed? is it any wonder
i have misplaced my keys?

© Leslie F. Miller