Risa Denenberg

No one to blame

I drove through a snowstorm, flouting safe passage.
You turned me away when I rapped at the gate.
I did it for love.

No, I did it for cash, what coins can procure.
In torrents of rain on an uneven highway.
I did it for need.

The car aquaplaned, skated the median.
I survived the smash and other misfortunes.
I did it to chastise.

Not sure why I did it.  You never saw me.
Perhaps showing off, wanting you to love back.
I did it for spite.

I did it for brioche, but settled for donuts.
I basked in the thrill of your perfect hash browns.
I did it for breakfast.

I did it for wisdom, the kind you can’t buy.
The risks seemed worth it. I held your hand tight.
I did it for sex.

Or the promise of sex. Recklessly sideswiped,
I spun out on ice. I did it for you. No,
I did it for free.

About a poem

To read a poem
is to know nothing.
Even when I scour obscurities
my ignorance appalls and punctures
these bloated air sacs of mind.

I would spend the rest of my days
in the company of poems, or perhaps, choose one
to dismember, gnaw at, get drunk with,
until it wears me down to gristle.

I’m getting old now and go early
to bed. My poem tags along,
recounts deftly that we have suffered deeply together
and then sometimes,
we have sex.

Risa Denenberg is an aging hippie currently living in the Pacific Northwest. She earns her keep as a nurse practitioner and spends the rest of her time reading poetry. Her chapbook, what we owe each other, is forthcoming this Fall from The Lives You Touch Publications.