No post today

Move along,
nothing to see here.
You could infer
or is it imply
that I'm a slacker
or busy
or dead
or not much of a poet.

Maybe I'm a perfectionist
wrapped in a neurosis
dressed with a light vinaigrette
of writer's block.

Maybe I'll write tomorrow
and maybe I won't.

I'm not the boss of me.

Molly Wigand
4/7.2011

The Estates of Fairway Hills

The neighbors' grass
is always greener.

Their toddler
grabs a maverick dandelion
and feeds it to the dog,
who grows an extra leg,
but no fleas, by God.

My lips go numb
when I walk by
on treatment day.
I can hardly sneer.

Molly Wigand
4/4/2011

Family

Family

is a child's knitting,
clumsy loops
of memory and resentment,
forgiveness and rage
bound in a tangle.

To love or to hate?
It's all about focus.

Which pieces and strands
keep you warm?

Molly Wigand
4/3/2011

3 a.m.

Teenage giggles
AM radio
and holey muffler sounds.

It’s long past curfew,
and dread seeps in
to my giddy freedom.

Rounding the corner
I see my father,
gargoyle of the front steps,
the picture of belligerence.

“Where in thunder have you been?”
waking the neighbors.

More laughter
from the car friends
as I brush past him
through the bourbon fumes.

“Sober up
and I’ll tell you,”
I hiss, all bravado

From my room
I watch him stagger to the door.
It slams.
The couch springs
creak under his dead weight.

Tomorrow there will be
no sober conversation,
only stoney wounded silence
till my next transgression
unlocks his godly rage again.


Molly Wigand
4/2/2011

Outlaw Cobra

I’m a badass all right,
but not foolhardy enough
to like my chances
slithering through New York
on my belly
dodging taxis and pigeons
and investment bankers.

Florida tourists’ gators
thrived in the sewers,
I hear,
but what kind of life is that
for a king?

My Persian head and hood
need sunlight.

Did I sense relief
or disappointment
when they found me
curled up in the corner?

A remnant
of their wild nature
confined again
behind the glass.

Molly Wigand
4/1/2011