Because they don’t do the important things, the things Life depends on, like cooking dinner or emptying the dishwasher. They won’t fold clothes or fill the car with gas or sit at a desk eight hours a day, listening to the boss bark. But then I read Moira Egan’s Hot Flash Sonnets as I wait for the doctor. Suddenly, a chuckle is enough to face diagnosis. I wrap words around my body like a cast, setting what’s broken so it can heal. At night, Rae Hoffman Jager stands by me as I soothe my son, rocking away the croup that seeps through bronchi like an invasive moon through metal blinds. In this world, poems are like women—unseen, the work is often unpraised, done in dark hours without witness, necessary as sleep, as blood, as air.
Marissa Glover teaches and writes in Florida, where she is co-editor of Orange Blossom Review and a senior editor at The Lascaux Review. Marissa’s work has been published in Rust + Moth, Sweet, First Things, War, Literature & the Arts, and SWWIM Every Day, among other journals. Follow her on Twitter @_MarissaGlover_.