1.
When people hear I’m a poet

some expect
that French hummingbirds
will fall from my mouth:
flashing
subtleties, gems
suspended
on a red string.

Listen,
I want to say to them,
It’s not going to shimmer like that,
not always.  Sometimes
there are no hummingbirds —
isn’t a Chicago robin
doing its drab and wormy job
wonder enough?

2.
I won’t lie — seems sometimes
that I’ve got
not just birds but
a whole game preserve
inside me.  Being the host
of a whole wilderness,
even the ugly parts —
that’s apparently important enough
that it’s become my vocation.

3.
If you want to know
what poetry I have in me,
three things to recall:

one, among the instantly arresting lovelies
there will always be some
hideous and
some so plain you will not see them
at first;

two, among the plain and ugly
there will be some venomous and
some that heal —
and there will be the same among the beautiful ones,
of course;

third,
whether peacock or slug,
three-legged dog
or most unexpected
unicorn
(yes, unicorn: not at all
precious but terrible,
you’ll see),

recall,
I beg,
that I
have to live with them.

I’m their shell, I am the walls
they loathe.  These aren’t
pets.  They don’t love me.
They growl, claw,
bite.

When people hear
I’m a poet,
they need to be prepared
for all the blood.