On Declaring Myself a Poet

It feels ridiculous declaring myself a poet.

I’m living in a constant state of audition and submission — half in a world of observation and self-talk, half in a delusional reality where this somehow works out. The days of having a title are over. I’ve got nothing to offer at a dinner party except, “Metronome, my three-part poem about desire exhaling between my thighs, has been rejected.”

But I don’t offer that up.

I just say I’m still teaching yoga and trying to get published.

End of story.

Most days, I genuinely think: what the hell am I doing?

I have friends who do meaningful things. You know — physician assistants. Product managers. Human resource directors. Physical therapists. People whose work fits neatly into conversation.

I tried that once.

I never stayed anywhere long enough to pick up an accent.

I was a mom in an active sense — not just a net swaying in the breeze, twisting in on itself, getting pegged by falling branches and squirrel dung. I ran hard. I showed up. I did the things that were supposed to anchor a couple of lives.

But still — poems, as far back as I can remember, floating through my head. A private world. A fantasy, maybe. And now I have this rare opportunity to stay there, and all I can think about is everything I should be doing instead — and the absurdity of announcing, out loud, that I write poems.

Who does that?

Who declares themselves a poet in public?

Only someone who must adore a bruised forehead

and the beautiful delusions that fuel her.