Cabezón

By Amy Beeder b. 1964 Amy Beeder
I see you shuffle up Washington Street   
whenever I am driving much too fast:   
you, chub & bug-eyed, jaw like a loaf   
hands in your pockets, a smoke dangling slack   
from the slit of your pumpkin mouth,   
humped over like the eel-man or geek,   
the dummy paid to sweep out gutters,   

drown the cats. Where are you going now?   
Though someday you'll turn your gaze   
upon my shadow in this tinted glass   
I know for now you only look ahead   
at sidewalks cracked & paved with trash
but what are you slouching toward—knee-locked,   
hippity, a hitch in your zombie walk, Bighead?

Source: Poetry (February 2004).

MORE FROM THIS ISSUE

This poem originally appeared in the February 2004 issue of Poetry magazine

View this poem in its original format

February 2004
 Amy  Beeder

Biography

A former human rights observer in Haiti and Suriname, and a high school teacher in West Africa, Amy Beeder balances an ear for meter with an often ominous tone, creating a musical, at times mythical, exploration of how we construct beauty and strangeness. Critic Sandra Gilbert declared that Burn the Field (2006) “constitutes an impressive debut for a writer who reveres the heft, texture, and taste of words.”
 
Writing in the . . .

Continue reading this biography

Poem Categorization

SUBJECT Relationships, Friends & Enemies

POET’S REGION U.S., Southwestern

Report a problem with this poem


Your results will be limited to content that appeared in Poetry magazine.

Search Every Issue of Poetry

Originally appeared in Poetry magazine.

This poem has learning resources.

This poem is good for children.

This poem has related video.

This poem has related audio.