On line at the supermarket
waiting for the tally,
the blue numerals
tattooed
on the white skins
of paper,
I read your open book
of folly
and take heart,
poet of my heart.

The poet as a housewife!
Keeper of steak & liver,
keeper of keys, locks, razors,
keeper of blood & apples,
of breasts & angels,
Jesus & beautiful women,
keeper also of women
who are not beautiful--

you glide in from Cape Ann
on your winged broomstick--
the housewife's Pegasus.

You are sweeping the skies clear
of celestial rubbish.
You are placing a child there,
a heart here. . . .
You are singing for your supper.

Dearest wordmother & hunger-teacher,
full professor of courage,
dean of women
in my school of books,
thank you.

I have checked out
pounds of meat & cans of soup.
I walk home laden,
light with writing you.

© Erica Mann Jong

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