It's the third day and I'm already flagging...

Maybe it's because it's Sunday, and I still have a nasty cold, and I skipped going to yoga this morning* (and yesterday) because waking up with the cold was like trying to claw my way out of dream jello, but I just don't want to settle down to poetry.

Just write a five line poem and be done with it, a voice tells me.  This voice is pretty lazy. It also urges me to eat a few more chocolates and then just walk a few more blocks or it's after 5 pm, right? You need a drink. I'm not sure if it's my id or something more pedestrian.

Today's assignment is #1 from Kelli Agodon's Poetry Month Prompts:  Grab the closest book. Go to page 29. Write down 10 words that catch your eye. Use 7 of words in a poem. For extra credit, have 4 of them appear at the end of a line.

Here goes.  I grabbed a book from the shelf that I have yet to read: Michael Chabon's Manhood for Amateurs.  These 10 words grab me: thirteen, daughter, interpretation, mock, Liverpool, slang, kitchen, burns, bathtub, and universe.

#

Thirteen

I am nearly thirteen when we 

cross the border,

zip into Matamoros, 

the four of us in a purple 

station-wagon

(dog's blood on the front tire): 

an interpretation of 

the nuclear family -- 

missing, for once, 

and with blessed ease, 

the fuming patriarch 

with his Zapata mustache,

a universe of chaos 

unfurling with each breath that we

can't read 

(though we try, oh we 

try, holding our own

breath, 

counting heartbeats, 

waiting for level five 

hurricanes, for

kitchen-killing tornadoes) --

No punctuation will hold off 

the fact 

that I am not

this man's daughter, 

nor will I ever be.

My father (who he loved loved loved) 

is dead and

my girly face mocks his absence, 

my blood fills a body 

that every day 

morphs strangely away 

from and toward his. 

But this is already an old

and boring story. 

I am in the backseat, 

leaned against

the burning window, 

eyeing a book that makes me

sick, 

trying to learn 

Spanish slang: 

ay caramba! Oh

crap no oh 

shit yeah 

and 

fucking hell -- 

I have no new words

for these 

but I am nearly

thirteen 

and for the moment have

no father

as we cross the line

into another 

country

--

*I skipped leaving the house to do yoga. There's this other voice/impulse in me that makes me do things, compels me. And I just slipped an old yoga DVD into the machine and did a 45 minute routine that showed me just how challenging my yoga practice is. So, though the DVD lady wasn't nearly as demanding as Jaci at Grace Yoga (yay for Jaci!), I've got a small buzz that feels pretty good. And as soon as I finish this poetry chore I'm going to head down into the basement for 45 minutes on the treadmill. Yes. I might have a form of workout OCD.