{"id":89943,"date":"2021-06-26T11:57:25","date_gmt":"2021-06-26T15:57:25","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/?p=89943"},"modified":"2021-06-26T11:57:25","modified_gmt":"2021-06-26T15:57:25","slug":"poem-3-missing-tools","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/2021\/06\/poem-3-missing-tools\/","title":{"rendered":"Poem 3: Missing Tools"},"content":{"rendered":"

Missing Tools<\/strong><\/p>\n

This is why women who\u2019ve been hurt hoard the gauzy memories<\/p>\n

in fields near their homes. They wait for the new moon<\/p>\n

to bury those pains pell-mell near trees because trees<\/p>\n

have strong hides that contain quantities of sap drumming<\/p>\n

just beneath the surface, the way their own skin holds<\/p>\n

volumes of lava inside. Their bodies are private chapels<\/p>\n

filled with sinners, or their bodies have grown<\/p>\n

into closets for storing lumps that reek like sponges of vinegar<\/p>\n

when pried to the surface. Do the clouds in the sky<\/p>\n

remind them of their own mothers? What kind of rain<\/p>\n

do they need? Their mothers haven\u2019t owned the battered goblets<\/p>\n

their daughters hold, never had reason to shout<\/p>\n

to the heavens: why did you let him get near me?<\/em><\/p>\n

Their mothers were sold their own bag of goods, sent<\/p>\n

home with samples of formula to feed their babies.<\/p>\n

How can a woman be made to believe her own milk<\/p>\n

is no good? These mothers could not teach their daughters<\/p>\n

how to nurse, so how could they teach them to get out<\/p>\n

of the way of the hailstones, how\u00a0to get away<\/p>\n

from the dented, broken cups their men were,<\/p>\n

men whose fathers didn\u2019t know how to teach them<\/p>\n

to play fair and be nice and not hit. Sometimes<\/p>\n

crowbars are the best tools to excise the lumps<\/p>\n

creaking up just under their skin, or to fend off<\/p>\n

more blows, those white sparks igniting<\/p>\n

in their skulls from a fist or a knee battering them<\/p>\n

like a crazed horny goat who\u2019s come up to them<\/p>\n

on the mountainside of a marriage that failed from the word go<\/em>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Missing Tools This is why women who\u2019ve been hurt hoard the gauzy memories in fields near their homes. They wait for the new moon to bury those pains pell-mell near trees because trees have strong hides that contain quantities of sap drumming just beneath the…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3235,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[11],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-89943","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-half-marathon-poem"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/89943","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3235"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=89943"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/89943\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":90029,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/89943\/revisions\/90029"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=89943"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=89943"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=89943"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}