Ode on the Wildest Word
No, sir, I am not your baby, not your twenty-dollar
shot of tequila, not your excise tax on petroleum
jelly, your high-risk dirigible in the bomb-alicious
sky filled with lies, the radio highs that last
three minutes tops, the shuck and jive of yes ma'am,
doublethink spam, drink-the-Kool-Aid
Marxist sham, the wham up-against-the-wall
cattle call of the true believers, left and right,
the slight lisp on the edge of doom. O no, Daddy-o,
I cannot swim out to your island of swoon,
or the two-bit room in the Alligator Motel, that hell,
with its sharp teeth and open jaws, the seesaw
back and forth between high noon and doom,
that tune. No, baby, I'm sitting here all alone,
grown woman, looking back on all the tricks, the love
sick delirium that blasts off to the moon
and then dissolves into a rule book and curdled milk,
the silk cave of raven wings, the slinky
rinky-dink dance with death, the breathless sigh. O my,
I'm saying no to the bye-bye lullaby,
half-hearted whisky-and-rye apocalypse afternoon,
the harpoon-in-my-gut regret that say yes
no everything, sings soprano in the church choir, mucks
in the mire outside the front door, the storm gutter
matter of cant, the torn dress and sweaty hankering
to do good, so here I am in a rococo imbroglio
of Hamlet and moonshine, the backwoods banter
that begets shame, the no-name oblivion
of staying on the bus as it travels through the war zone
and lets you off at what was once home.
______________________________
Barbara Hamby
BURN
UPittsburgh Press, 2025
