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.