It’s a late night here working on the final touches of my you-will-love-poetry-dammit unit designed for tenth graders. The oolong tea isn’t holding me up any longer. And my back hurts.
Ms. Clifton, however, may be my saving grace.
wishes for sons
i wish them cramps.
i wish them a strange town
and the last tampon.
I wish them no 7-11.
i wish them one week early
and wearing a white skirt.
i wish them one week late.
later i wish them hot flashes
and clots like you
wouldn’t believe. let the
flashes come when they
meet someone special.
let the clots come
when they want to.
let them think they have accepted
arrogance in the universe,
then bring them to gynecologists
not unlike themselves.
Amen.
Clifton’s mean sense of humor (or is it justice?) always brings me back from the dead.