We are Seven

Now it is down to six,
or rather
we are seven:

six poets and one bachelorette.

She is the one for me
because I can feel

what she is thinking.
I don’t like seeing you

with other poets,
behind the candelabra.

I am here for the right reasons;
those reasons include

Greek mythology
and maybe opium.

We are in France.
Stupid France.

When I push her
against the yew
tree her chemical-
straightened hair

like lines

She belongs to me.
As I wait for my date I muse

for my muse, amusing.
I could be the poet

that breaks your heart,
my hands warm and capable.

This is the last week of dating
before hometowns. I take going

into a poet’s Cumbrian cottage,
prison cell, or Hampstead flat

very seriously. She is the classiest
of the classy! If I get a rose,

I can bring her home to meet
my family, i.e. my wife, sister,

my best friend’s wife’s sister, etc.

More than anything, I want a one-
on-one date this week, ideally

with some fell walking.

The date card says “Shelley”
and I’m all “which one”
and everyone’s all “P. B.”

and I’m like “awesome!”
It’s important to me

to really figure out
what is the future.

I’ve been journaling
a little bit: it’s all about you,

my muse. I was going to leave, actually,
because I’ve never felt this way so soon

or in general. It’s scary.
I look at you and see the snow

no one beholds. You can’t see
the snow but I look at it.

He’s so romantic! This is the first day
that feels like a real ode. I feel it

when I’m with her.
If I met your mom,

what would she ask me?
Things like, if you were a planet,

what planet would you be?
This is a man! This is a total-package

man in front of me. Date card!
I’m not sure Coleridge is here

for the right reasons. Everyone else
is putting their emotions

out there and being
and I want that

from Byron. By now
you are asking

who is the sixth poet
but we can’t tell you,
we’re protecting ourselves

from the tabloids. But we are seven:
the bachelorette, Wordsworth, Coleridge,
Byron, Shelley, Keats, and the sixth

poet, let’s call him Stan,
let’s call him Abraham.

Let’s call him you. It’s you.

Rachel Feder’s most recent poetry collection, Birth Chart came out from SUNY Press in 2020.

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