My husband says, why don’t you write a poem
about the new baby, you’re the writer
in the family, birth is a big deal,
it deserves a poem, “new life,” etc.
Put in about her being born in spring,
on International Women’s Day—
now there’s a theme. I bet most poets write
about their kids and grandkids when they’re born.
You’re always scribbling about the past,
how about a here-and-now grandbaby?
Tall order but short notice, honey. I hate
to tell you but babies don’t need poetry.
We do, we, intelligent people,
gaga over the crib, which thankfully
has a guardrail to keep people like us
from crawling inside to recite something
appropriate & unnecessary. Silence
is the compliment here—stunned and abashed
and joyous silence, a quiet reply
to the noisy mysteries of the universe.
Hello, Naomi, how you doing, girl?
is the best I can do when I stare down
at her tiny, elegant hands and dream
a pen, a little baton, a steering wheel
in them, trying to match a future life
with her astonishing & perfect self.
But I’ve taken her silence as my cue.
Naomi doesn’t need a word from me.
I’m just a writer in the family.
I know real poetry when I see it.