Three Poem by Donna Ialongo

Three



3
medievally the magic number.
'bad things come in threes.'

- John Ciardi didn't move for my poetry
- a boy no long bushel and pecked the poet
- the Atlantic Monthly sneezed at both poet and poetry

all in three days
now underground
when my resurrection?

maybe i'm a fly
dead after a full life of 60 days.

and where do flies go to die?
so many - i should think man
would have a world crisis
picking them up,
sweeping
their blue-rusted bodies
to sanitary pink garbage dispose-alls.

who would stop to pick me up
to be ground away?

but i am not a household variety fly
living on sugar cakes and grape juice;
i'm a blood bloat sixped
living on the living
with poetry not detached enough for critics.

cryabout things come in threes
three little overdone words, boy.
one had four letters, bordering on dirty.
but we fixed that... didn't we?
and now lack so loudly an extra pair
of hands, legs, and eyelashes.
and i can't laugh so hardly.

(September 10,1966)

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