Metrics
Writing a sonnet,
my fingers count each other.
When a line gets lost,
they push the floating air
in a slow wave like
anemones. When
the poem finds itself,
it gestures and chatters.
It is five, playing
rock-scissors-paper.
It is a deaf woman
talking to herself.
Inside my palm,
something is forming.
My hands
bloom in the air.
A Review
If I were going to write a poem
about a man, I wouldn’t do it
the way Sharon Weightman would.
I wouldn’t be oblique, ironic;
I wouldn’t retreat
to literary language; I wouldn’t
disguise myself in metaphor.
At times she’s unsure what
tone to take – she cuts
sentiment to the bone,
then tells us twice
what we already know.
She ought to forget Yeats,
Roethke, Wright; dare
her own voice. I want her
to quit posing questions.
Let someone ask: Where are you?
Let her answer: Here.
