Quivering Gains by Ayla Rogers

Quivering Gains by Ayla Rogers (A second imitation of “When I Am Asked” By Lisel Mueller. How…fitting.)  When they ask me How I write so many poems, Why I contemplate my most mundane moods In such extended and eloquent verse, How I twist every platitude to nuance With a single stroke of the pen, Slip of the tongue, Caress of sick sweet flesh-- I always move to counter--It seems the salient query:How could I abstain? How can my readers, my lovers, my dearest critics Do otherwise? It was the day they told me to be quiet That I vowed never to listen To men who tell me I talk too much, Or too loudly, Or too brashly in public. It was the day they brought me whiskey When I’d asked for water, And water when I pleaded for wine. When I heard myself say “thank you,” And puzzled at the source of sound, I couldn’t feel resound within. My body and the air both growing thin, And thinner, from the nights spent skipping dinner And the mornings, checking locks on doors. Cocooned in recycled linens, Checking battered skin for sores, Searching rooms for notes and letters, Left entombed for something better. I’d bury my head and try to recall it, But only the echo remains. Like reverberation from an atom split, And quivering for gains.   No, I will not be silent.                                                                                                                                                Poem of the Day: When I Am Asked BY LISEL MUELLER When I am asked    how I began writing poems,    I talk about the indifference of nature.    It was soon after my mother died,    a brilliant June day,    everything blooming.    I sat on a gray stone bench    in a lovingly planted garden,    but the day lilies were as deaf    as the ears of drunken sleepers    and the roses curved inward.    Nothing was black or broken    and not a leaf fell    and the sun blared endless commercials    for summer holidays.