For Felicia (Again)
by Maggie

When my poetry mentor was little she read Sapho at six.
I read the Sow’s Ear poetry magazine as Mary pasted it together.
I always said I was a Sow’s Ear child –
And while I always knew what it wasn’t,
I never understood what it was.
Then I understood it was not a literal pig ear
Or even the legendary purse that is made from it.
Of course there would be a symbol past the stitches of rags and riches.
Poets, and we all can be poets,
Read anything they can touch, hear, smell, hide away with on the rooftop
When they’re supposed to be asleep.
Poets, and we all can be poets,
Are ALL Sow’s Ear children.
We read Sapho at six,
Basho on the beach instead of sandcastles
Or while sandcastles were built on our backs.
We read quickly – devouring the text until we could get back in the pond.
Or we read slowly, melting into the words themselves like a stew.
We let the road signs on long trips grow into stanzas,
We sat in front of library isles,
And took every seventh word, and read a sonnet.
Because if every person is a poet, every word Can Be (not is) poetry.