Thirty years ago I joined the Connecticut Writing Project and haven’t recovered yet. Since then, I've tendered my drafts almost monthly in a writing group of other recovering CWP teachers. There’s a closeness among us we get nowhere else, as we share bits and pieces of our lives — our trials with truculent pianos, unpredictable children, and failing parents. Part is honing our craft, part is shaping our experiences, part is understanding who we are.
On the Subject of Pots
a crusty old lobster friend has lots to say:
how much better the bait smells when you’re outside sniffing
than tastes when you’re locked inside; how it’s way, way
harder to back out than sidle your ass in.
Ditto on love, she chuckles, resting her chin
on her huge orange claw, not the first
to notice how much easier to fall in
love than fall back out, now risk-averse.
But when trapped, she says, just suck it up. Immerse
yourself in chores. Dust. Watch soaps. Wear fishnet
stockings to entice, for better or worse,
a soul-mate. Quarrel. Cuddle. Avoid regrets.
Make that tight little cage in some odd inlet
magically work, kinda like a sonnet.
© 2018 William McCarthy
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