ode to the company of poets

Everything’s a poem today:
the luminescent melted peanut butter
on my toasted cinnamon raisin bagel
smiles at me like my grandfather’s face
each time we arrived at his door.

I’ve been away from here,
not just from home but from this 
celebration, this hallelujah
that takes in the world, wraps it up
and sticks a bow on it.  

Snippets of poems swirl around me.
Glorifying the minuscule, the ordinary,
the grotesque.  The sponge toffee orange 
mushroom caps, musty scent of swamps,
burning leaves, cedars and spruce,
the cocky dip of the bluejay’s head,
the golden cupped scythe of moon

the ain’t it weird and gloriousness
of being human, being broken and tempered,
heated, molten, fluid, vaporous, and then, 
deep breath out, deep breath in, 
solid again.

We laugh about ear wax and snot,
talk about bullies and victims, 
the fuzzy and uncomfortable stuff we wanted to hide
until someone said “I love that about you”
or “I’ve done that too.”

Words blast and bless us 
like power washers dusting off the
“hope you like me” smiles --
the “fuck you if you don’t” grimaces --
all of us excavating all we know
or think we know, the seen and unseen,
like the underside of our skin, 
or a new set of teeth, foreign, intimate 
inviting our tongue to lick us over and over 
like a mother cleaning a new born kitten
all the backwards facing spines on her tongue
stripping our meat from our bones
until we feel well and truly home

© Dawna Proudman