poetry

So you're the President-elect. Your advisors say you need to pander to the people in the heartland who are half-convinced you're going to take your oath on the Koran, so you need a megachurch-foundin', Prop 8-supportin' pastor to show everyone how much you love Jesus. Check! Who's left to charm? Oh, yeah, those Hillary chicks. I know! Why don't you pick someone who writes about vaginas to deliver the poem? It worked for Clinton!

Monsieur Cuvier investigates
between my legs, poking, prodding,
sure of his hypothesis.
I half expect him to pull silk
scarves from inside me, paper poppies,
then a rabbit! He complains
at my scent and does not think
I comprehend, but I speak

There haven't been enough gynecological poems at presidential inaugurations. In all seriousness, though, while I'm ticked about the Rick Warren thing, I like what I've read of Elizabeth Alexander.

Giving birth is like jazz, something from silence,
then all of it. Long, elegant boats,
blood-boiling sunshine, human cargo,
a hand-made kite –

Post-partum.
No longer a celebrity, pregnant lady, expectant.
It has happened; you are here,
each dram you drain a step away
from flushed and floating, lush and curled.
Now you are the pink one, the movie star.
It has happened. You are here,

and you sing, mewl, holler, peep,
swallow the light and bubble it back,
shine, contain multitudes, gleam. You

are the new one, the movie star,
and birth is like jazz,
from silence and blood, silence

then everything,

jazz.

Plus, yay for a president who knows enough about modern poetry (hell, any poetry) to go with someone a little off the beaten path, but who also has a kickass resume. Also, I had no idea--or had forgotten the probable reference from The West Wing--that only Kennedy and Clinton had included poets in their ceremonies. Definitely a wasted opportunity for the others--who would Nixon have chosen?