Kenneth Pobo, three poems


AUNT CALLS WANDAWOOWOO AN AIRHEAD

I am an airhead--my head is full

of air the way a prairie is.

Clouds rise in me. Still,

Aunt Rita, a woman who thinks

Purgatory is a Spice Girl,

didn’t mean to be unkind.

She likes her family firmly in place

like the heavy mahogany credenza

with Uncle Lonnie’s picture

of him in a long-sleeve shirt

half draped by a fading lilac.

Family, an audition to get a part

that you’d rather not play—

yet you step on stage anyway.

WANDAWOOWOO CLAIMS

to visit Saturn often,

moons like frosted roses on a cake.

A garden, space

needs no weeding.

She goes alone.

Some beauty prefers privacy—

The Starry Night,

just you and the painting,

the rest of humanity

standing inside

giant rings

of boredom and grief.