Not a Poem

This is not a poem

and...I am not a poet

not a somebody, just a

nobody, a woman perhaps

not a leader, not a man

not Adam, and not Eve

Buddhist, but not a monk

a person, rarely, if never

a refugee, yes, an immigrant

not foreign, but an outsider

American but not naive

a wife, partner, and friend

a mother only to those

who know the little apples

sweet and joyful things

not like me, but like thee

a rat, a fish, and a golden

serpent, twisting in the sea

a story told like a punchline

watched, but never known

flying in anxious circles

just like my songs, not

straight, not like a kite

but more like…a bell jar

except, my head is freed

from the oven, and they

tell me, I must be mad

put your head back in!

for, I must be sad

to be so free and so

alone. It must be so

hard and so lonely

to write a poem and

still not be, a poet

anything we can see

poor thing, poor her

poor us, poor we!

the worst thing to be

is a strange woman

in a strange land

being strangely herself

with nothing to show

for her toils and troubles

and her work and her

words…but butterflies

and dandelion seeds

scattering away 🦋

© 2025 Chenda Duong

Note: After Joyce Carol Oates’ "This Is Not a Poem" (1975)