Linda Laderman
Linda Laderman is a Michigan poet. Her poetry has appeared in, or is forthcoming from, numerous literary journals, including Eclectica, The Westchester Review, Sheila -Na-Gig online, The MacGuffin, SWWIM, Action Spectacle, MER, and ONE ART. She is a past recipient of Harbor Review’s Jewish Women’s Prize. Her micro-chapbook, What I Didn’t Know I Didn’t Know, can be found online at https://www.harbor-review.com/what-i-didnt-know-i-didnt-know. In past lives, she was a journalist and taught English at Owens Community College and Lourdes University in Ohio. For nearly a decade she was a docent at the Zekleman Holocaust Center near Detroit. More work and information at lindaladerman.com.
My husband loves to read his AARP magazine
with headlines that shout do you know who’s
targeting you? 44 ways to enjoy life more, see, hear,
and even taste things better. I don’t know about the
syntax, but I am all for tasting things better. At 75,
any bump in intensity is a good thing. Lately, I’ve
been reading a lot about poets practicing Buddhism,
impermanence and permanence, how it has taught
them to be alone with themselves, to work and write
in silence. I was doing silence pretty well until my
husband asked if I wanted to go to Dairy Queen,
then I succumbed to an Oreo cookie blizzard.
I’d been looking for any excuse not to write.
It wasn’t happening. I’ve lost the mystery. I don’t
know what to write about. I didn’t finish reading
Madame Bovary in high school. At first, I thought
I’d write about Circe, my favorite goddess, who
turned Odysseus’s crew into swine, and made her
banishment to the island of Aeaea work like magic.
I couldn’t forget how she wrangled her cruel sisters,
her mother and the minotaur, like a bad ass. At the
very least, she deserves pages singing her praises.
O Circe is as far as I got. My muse was as elusive
as one of her incantations. A few days ago, I
brought a poem to my poetry workshop that
everyone praised. They said it showed restraint.
They loved its fruity images. Workshop love is an
omen that my poem will languish in poetry limbo
for the duration of whatever time I have left on this
earth, which according to AARP, could be much
longer than expected–if only I can learn to
recognize the warning signs of a scam and avoid
being bilked out of my life savings by some good-
looking fraudster. Last night, I took a cue from
Circe and allowed silence to cast its spell. When my
phone broke the quiet, I knew just how to handle the
call.
