名人诗歌|Blues

I am lazy， the laziest

girl in the world. I sleep during

the day when I want to， 'til

my face is creased^{1 and swollen2，}

'til my lips are dry and hot. I

eat as I please： cookies and milk

after lunch， butter and sour cream

on my baked potato， foods that

slothful people eat， that turn

yellow and opaque^{4 beneath the skin.}

Sometimes come dinnertime Sunday

I am still in my nightgown， the one

with the lace trim listing because

I have not mended it. Many days

I do not exercise， only

consider it， then rub my curdy⁵

belly^{6 and lie down. Even}

my poems are lazy. I use

syllabics instead of iambs，

prefer slant^{7 to the gong of full rhyme，}

write briefly^{8 while others go}

for pages. And yesterday，

for example， I did not work at all！

I got in my car and I drove

to factory outlet^{9 stores， purchased}

stockings and panties and socks

with my father's money.

To think， in childhood I missed only

one day of school per year. I went

to ballet class four days a week

at four-forty-five and on

Saturdays， beginning always

with plie， ending with curtsy.

To think， I knew only industry，

the industry of my race

and of immigrants， the radio

tuned^{10 always to the station}

that said， Line up your summer

job months in advance. Work hard

and do not shame your family，

who worked hard to give you what you have.

There is no sin but sloth^{3. Burn}

to a wick and keep moving.

I avoided sleep for years，

up at night replaying

evening news stories about

nearby jailbreaks， fat people

who ate fried chicken and woke up

dead. In sleep I am looking

for poems in the shape of open

V's of birds flying in formation，

or open arms saying， I forgive you， all.