Find and share the perfect poems.
When I was a boy and my fist
Would land into my father’s arm,
I’d cry out, and he’d say
Didn’t hurt me none.
He’s been dead six years now,
And my work is still to try
To beat myself up
And make the pain last.
Copyright © 2014 by Mark Yakich. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-a-Day on July 1, 2014.
A book decorates
A nightstand
And a body
Decorates a bed.
The nightstand
May be made
Of plastic, metal,
Or wood,
And is normally
The same
Height as the bed.
Even if they are
Very married,
Lovers tarry
And aver
And aver and
Tarry. Finally
One of them
Rises
To search
The dictionary
For a word
The other has
Made up.
And I am not a pedestal. We are not a handful of harmless scratches on pale pink canvas. Today is not the day to stop looking for the woman to save you. What was once ivory is wood. What was once whalebone is cotton. My coif and corset are duly fastened, and your shirttail is tied in a diamond knot. You may be the giver of unappreciated nicknames and the devoted artist who has given my still life life. But we can never reach each other's standards. You want to condemn me to eternity. I want to make you no more perfect than you used to be. We are not together, we are not alone.