jason primm
dodge-ball
What’s worse than a stranger’s
typed poem in my lap?
Never mind, I know:
a loved one’s whole manuscript,
binder-clipped, with stuck
notes hanging over the edges.
Don’t worry. I’m not mad.
I’ve done it too, marked up
the poem like I was marking
the person. I, too, have said
go away and I don’t forgive you
with faint praise about a good
first draft or circled one line
and wrote, “Wow.”
You weren’t fair to the poem
but I agree. I’m still an ass.
Of course, friends or not,
the object of the game
is to dodge the poems,
to be the one who receives
all the praise. I won’t read
a poem unless I’m cornered.
I was at a party once where
someone read a sestina,
and everyone jumped head-
first into the bushes
one floor down, the black
stocking legs of the women
waving in the crisp November air.
You know that’s a lie.
I don’t go to parties.
I’ve dodged poetry books
on my shelves for decades.
Friends and lovers can be
deceived. It’s the great poems
that you should fear the most.
Those are the snares on the soft floor
of the old woods that you’ll never
pull your foot from.
Jason Primm pursues modest goals in a coastal city. When he isn’t writing, he can be found sharpening his slice backhand. His work has most recently appeared in Juxtaprose Magazine, Light/Water, Palaver, Rust + Moth and The Columbia College Literary Review. He maintains a blog at jasonprimm.wordpress.com.
poetry
