Tell It to the Birds
by Maya Jewell Zeller

I am sick
of not winning the National Poetry Series.
I am sick of waiting
for the mammogram, the ultrasound,
the appointment to discuss the results.
Tomorrow is the first day of school
in the year of our Lord 10x the number
of Covid cases as last fall
and no online options.
In the part of my mind I like to call
The Spite Museum,
I put each of my manuscripts in a different fairly ugly
dress and make a meme: 40 times a bridesmaid,
never a bride. But I always hated that saying.
Mostly because Never a Bride sounded thrilling,
I was killing it there in the Spite Museum
as I made one manuscript unwilling
to wear a dress, and one breast
missing. It went hiking.
When I had a child I named her life
and when I had another he almost died
but then lived so I named him for the echo
that falls down where once a river carved
stone so the walls carry sound. A good place
for a wail.
I am sick
possibly from the lump
but it may also be that this is the time my husband
of 22 years decided to tell me a string of lies.
I have been kind—his word—
and paying very close attention
like a wife or something
for a year and a half.
I understand irony. I hate ironing.
Once I, too, had other feelings.
I have tried to tone it down.
To come clean.

Yesterday I walked for two hours without stopping
and then I sat down in the water and cried.
A heron could care less.
An osprey stabbed a fish.

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https://electricliterature.com/three-poems-by-maya-jewell-zeller/