The Chairs are on the TableTracey Knapp
I wish I had the chance to say Oh, little life, you unpolished spoon! but I’m afraid that this is not the poem. Don’t expect a jar of fireflies here, no sexual orchids or doorways of importance, no moths over candlelight. There won’t be an ocean so no looking down in it and definitely no drowning. However, I hope you find the absence of children refreshing. Also, there are no understated bullet wounds. Sometimes irony is terrifying. Perhaps you would comment on fear in an explication of this poem. Maybe a revision would result in the deletion of all speculative adverbs. I can say for sure the speaker is aware of her contradictions. Nonetheless, she is committed to representing the truth as accurately as possible: She wanted to end with the line Today I mopped the floor vigorously and it’s still dull but afraid there’s more to it, she’d rather not consider the floor needs more mopping— a new mop entirely.
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