Claire Donato



“The poet said those years she felt depressed.”


The poet said those years she felt depressed. I fear one day I will be depressed. Could this be selfish?


At these times, I consult books for answers.


A self-conscious poet acts bemused by those individuals to whom he cannot relate. The poet condescends. He asks, “Are you listening to me?”


The egomaniacal poet behaves recklessly in order to absolve his inner loathing. He speeds when he drives. He hits on waitresses.


Male poets dismiss a female poet as young and imperceptive.


The kindest poet lives alone.


A poet curls into himself. He looks at the ceiling and contributes strange, pessimistic musings during conversation.


Everyone around me writes so candidly about beauty and wisteria, not to mention starlings.


In the midst of it all, I have become a child!





Morning Sadness


            Across the sheets saliva streaked the cat kneads human

skating. But cats don’t slide I wrap

a tourniquet around

My arm cut with a pair of open scissors

            I hear the turrets underwater sound    another set of eyes glare back