LINDA
SIMONE
Workshop
Maybe we expected too much—
for the teacher to polish
the gold in us
to right every wrong we write.
Maybe we yearned
for a carnival-house mirror
to make us thinner,
broader, buff.
Did we pay cash
so she’d lunch us at Lutece?
Phone Oprah on our behalf?
Hand us a draft from her Swiss account?
Shouldn’t we have written
ragged this time, raw,
spelunking down
past the tired truth?
Maybe we got a lesson
we hadn’t bargained for,
a sick feeling that our anger
had nothing to do with this class.
Maybe we needed to jab, not cover,
shoulder punches, stay standing
till finally it’s beaten into us:
ours is the only voice we need.
Back to Top
Review Home
|