by Alicia Hoffman
Promised I’d quit if my desires, like a switch, clicked
easily off. Once, under the bright lights of Westminster,
I walked lightly over stones and maybe I sacrificed
nothing but the sacrament. Transformation was
what I was after. Promised myself my poem
would be vast. Definitely not superficial. Not coy.
No clever lines in lieu of beauty. What can I say?
I read Keats. I leapt into the fog and drank cheap wine.
Listened to The Smiths before Morrisey got preachy.
Every time I write a poem I fail. Too pedantic.
Not enough risk. Earlier I was going more for prophetic.
But now I stare out my window. I pay the electric bill.
I Zillow my house to math the invisible average
of equity. I promised myself I’d write a poem
worth saving, but my student loans have eaten
the interest. Each line overwrought with mistakes.
But tomorrow I’ll try again to notice anything
other than the nation’s slow dip into demagoguery.
The fruit flies on the counter. Sure, I’ve always
been a helpless animal. Half-god, half-ego, and
isn’t everyone in awe of their own mind, the way
it can crave the sublime one moment and the next
mow down the dandelions in the lawn? I know
they are good for bees. I know I’m ridiculous.
I don’t even believe in recycling. But I love rinsing
the plastic shell of the empty container before
rolling out the blue bin to the street. I love the pattern
each mower blade makes in my lawn’s blanket of green.
Alicia Hoffman is originally from Pennsylvania and now lives, writes, and teaches in Rochester, New York. She holds an MFA in Poetry from the Rainier Writing Workshop and has authored three collections, most recently ANIMAL (Futurecycle Press). Her poems have been published in a variety of journals, including Thimble Literary Magazine, Thrush, Radar Poetry, Trampset, The Night Heron Barks, Tar River Poetry, The Penn Review, Glass: A Poetry Journal, One Art, The Shore, and elsewhere. Find her at: https://www.aliciamariehoffman.com
January House Literary Journal 
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