Poetry by Barbara Sheahan Arzt
I’ve taken to talking to myself
especially here in the park:
What is it about this time of year
that makes the crows shit oysters?
It isn’t that way in the summer
when they’re slinging berry pies.
Where’s the sun they promised?
I’m wet and my hands are freezing
trying to write in this tiny notebook
using my head as an umbrella
as if I had something to say. Maybe
that inflated notion will get me
off the ground. It will take a lot of hot air
cause I’m weighted down by my mother.
Today we’ll go for lab work
and she won’t want to walk
so I’ll wheel her down the clinic hall
and up to an IV station
where they’ll check for
a poem in her blood.
Barbara Sheahan Arzt is a retired dancer who transferred her movement energy to the practice of poetry and calligraphy. She finds that her experience with dance has much in common with the pen.