Ought to Be a Maker

One year they ordered me to make wheat.

Only my arms ripened,

wheat heads grew from my face.

Another year they ordered me to make hemp rope.

For a long time

thoughts twined and scattered.

Now, I sit before dawn writing poems.

You say my color’s not good,

that I look sick.

When I got this illness

you were heading from the south of the country to the north.

You say

you’re getting thin.

I see my malady is grave

because I fell in love with

a parachute

floating over from the season of blood.

All my strengths

became downfalls.

Only when I write about the world

does it appear, head drooping.

Only when I write about you

do you slip off your glasses and look at me.

When I write about myself

I see my gloomy hair needs a cut.

If could make scissors

that would be splendid.

Please squint for once,

walk away and don’t look back.

I’m writing poems.

I am

in my narrow room

a stubborn maker.