Memorize the last two lines of this poem if you want an all-weather mantra. That’s all I’m saying. The poem is by Tara Betts, and I asked her for it, and she…let me have it. I also asked her for a little back story, and frankly—I thought she would give me at least a little gossip, and maybe even the the real “Real Reason.” Did she do that? Find out for yourself. For Tara’s explanation of her poem, click here. For more poems and other Tara thangs, go to tarabetts.net.
The Real Reason
The real reason you left is a question mark, a comma with a crazy pause bent on gangsta lean against the walls of my brain, an ellipsis where every pregnant pause is abandoned.
No room is left in the well for wishes, just enough water to be quenched with dreams of stones that hold water within cemented congregation.
The reason you left is a sealed envelope, a pot too hot to touch, a linch pin that would crash the whole machine if I pulled it. Why even ask for the reason?
When a chime through a litany of w’s does not count any of the ways a mirror loves me, the number of smiles collected in a day like shells gathered in a pail?
Words litter the side of my bed hollowed out on the left side. This mouth down to my feet is all sugar cane so the reason never mattered.
Tara Betts is all sugar cane and then some.
—Tara Betts, July 22, 2004
|