I’ve drawn people in scribbles
and had them taped up
on my mother’s refrigerator
and maybe I am
a decent kitchen poet,
a step or two above hallmark
but stop telling me
you love my good enough–
that this is as deep as I can dive
or that this okayness
will bloom to better on its own–
it won’t
the pictures on the refrigerator
are stick figures needing meat
over their bones
hungry to swallow the moon
or shadow the sun,
so if you keep these somewhere unbarred
be ready for what’s wild, once fleshed
to slide down that door
wrap around your ankles
and trip you up
Susan Daniels Poetry 