Why I Didn't Write Poems by Joan Dobbie

That first summer
of Andy started in May
& just never quit. That luscious,
delicious, fat, golden sun
never let go. All day
day after day, I lay with my new
baby son, my chubby, pink, naked
beautiful peeper, under that sun
that I hadn't yet learned
not to trust, while my just as
naked, just as beautiful, impishly
adorable daughter, my Dawn,
played Barbie, or waded, or
swung on the swings. And I
was almost as naked as they
were, my gorgeous, naked, golden,
sun-drinking, child-swollen breasts
were as big & as full & as fecund
as planets. I made oceans
of milk. I made enough milk
in those days to drown an orphanage
of unwanted children. If I still
had all that milk I could send
truckloads down to San Francisco
to help nourish the homeless. I made
so much milk in those days that
sometimes Andy would choke. I'd
have to back off, my lush, sweet, creamy
thick milk gushing out over the
lawn in two snowy white fountains
feeding the flowering apple tree,
the raspberry bushes, even the
milkweeds themselves got more milk.
The dogs came around to lick off
the grass. Honeybees gathered
& danced for their queen. I was
content as a clover-fed cow & all
of my clovers had four leaves
or more. Of course I didn't
write poems.

jd 1992