Poetry of the Practical

Poem of the Month

Having spent more years

than I care to contemplate

on the absurd and maligned

endeavor of poetry,

I finally understand

what you relentless makers get

out of all of your knitting and stitching

and scrapping and brewing and broths.

As I’ve aged I’ve grown

enamored of the material.

Of what use is a poem?

These days my hands

are too restless for such a pursuit.

I want to form poems

I can hold in my palms and make use of.

I want to sew a skirt of a poem

that blooms like a flame when I twirl.

I want to make a silk bag of a poem

to tote home my onions and wine.

I want to crochet a long warm

scarf of a poem, with matching fingerless gloves.

I want to slow-cook a poem like a pot roast, and

serve it with beer and potatoes.

I want to paste up a poem like a scrapbook, all

Modge Podge and glitter and stamps.

As for the poems I’ve already written,

living their silent, ethereal lives,

may they fade away like the

pale and impermanent

ink they were conceived in.

These days I care only

for that which I can make use of.

—Kristen McHenry