Gwyn McVay
Calls I Cannot Answer

One editor must go down to the sea
again, and wants maritime poetry.
One wants the poetry of women, check,
who live in one of the Carolinas, oops.
One editor wants poems about riding horses.
You fool, I want to scream. How many pure-
imagination gallops with my toy ones
did I take? But toy horses don't sweat,
and don't count here. Glutton for grief,
one editor wants poems from widows.
I debate smothering my disaster
first husband -- but the prize is puny,
the magazine un-famous. Let it go.

You who collect poems from expatriates
will have to do without me. I can give
love poems to a barking crow;
"poems of the experience of disability,"
whatever the hell that means; crayon-
yellow daffodils and mud. I can give none
about motherhood; growing up Jewish;
aviation; or, yet, being old.
I can give the poems I have, and hope that some
of you off in the aether of the future like them.
Someday the call for poems about robot gorillas
must come, and then I will deliver.