My name is Podrigotumma and poetry is a strange thing.

It often is a private act written alone, but yet it's written for the possibility of being

read or recited in public.

So poetry asks us to make public what is very private.

And what is a more worthy thing for both private and public attention than love?

poetry invites us to make public the deep loves of our lives.

Bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh by Ellen Bass.

I can't always refer to the woman I love, my children's other mother as my darling,

my beloved sugar in my bowl.

No.

I need a common utilitarian word that calls no more attention to itself than nouns like grass,

bread, house.

The terms husband and wife are perfect for that.

Hasling with PG and E or dropping off dry cleaning, you don't want to say the light of

my life doesn't like starch.

Don't suggest spouse a hideous word and partner is sterile as a boardroom.

Couldn't we afford a term for the woman who carried that girl in her arms when she was

still all promise that boy curled inside her womb?

And today when I go to kiss her and she says, not now, I'm reading.

Still she deserves a syllable or two if only so I can express how furious she makes

me.

But maybe it's better this way, no puny pencil stubble of a word.

...