I.

At birth, the poet scored 1 out of 10 on the Apgar scale—it’s a wonder he survived. Growing up, the poet resisted all forms of mothering. The poet’s older brother teased him about his starter dreadlocks. When she was a little girl, the poet modeled pretty Easter dresses in JC Penney circulars. The poet considered the difference between the woods and a forest. The poet fell in the forest and couldn’t get up. The poet tripped balls in the woods. The poet sprinted ahead of the pack, and suffered an early victory. The lemon tart that the poet baked for dessert came out bitter, but she liked it because it was bitter and because it was her tart. The poet’s fame was based solely on a poem of his that started slowly and quietly built tension until it reached a climax that was the verbal equivalent of the drum break in the middle of “In the Air Tonight” by Phil Collins. The poet had a lump in her throat, and she let it live there for years. The poet bought a half-dozen t-shirts from a store at the mall that catered to fashionable teenage jocks. The poet danced like she had diamonds at the meeting of her thighs. The poet had something she liked to call a goldmine between her legs. The poet wrote a poem to his phisher. The poet was at the toddler stage of his avocation. The poet felt a gratitude to the entire population of the world when a person who barely knew them got their pronouns right, and, by the same token, they never corrected people who got their pronouns wrong. The poet thought about Laura Ingalls Wilder almost every day. A lot of what the poet wrote was about her brother, his lost myth. The poet described her boyfriend as Rhode Island’s most reliable meth dealer. The poet paid half for one abortion and the full cost of another. The poet bought steroids, human growth hormone, and synthetic testosterone from a man at the gym, with the goal of building more muscular lines. The poet fought the vernacular. The poet had a kind face. The poet had the kind of face that women liked to sit upon. The poet wore her hair in a French braid because she knew women would admire it, even if it did nothing for men. The poet respected her peers but could not say she admired any of them.

II.

The poet would never be mistaken as an empath. The poet’s best lines had a biting effect on the ear. The poet had a knuckle-poppingly firm handshake. The poet loved rhythmic clapping. The poet got married so her little boy would have a father. The poet told her daughter that the tooth fairy left money under her pillow because baby teeth are valuable in the fairy world. The poet sought a discomposed style. Someone made the poet’s private Google Chats public. The poet traded in his Chevy for a Cadillac. The poet had been more comfortable living in the closet. The poet’s gender reveal party backfired. The poet didn’t understand it, but somehow his girlfriend had gotten him pregnant. The poet called the doctor, and the doctor said, No more poets jumping on the bed. The poet consolidated her debts. The poet’s work was becoming essayistic. The poet was skilled at naming, metaphoring, jingling, preaching, theorizing, celebrating, and translating. The poet dreamed of a forest of shoetrees. The poet came to believe, after his divorce, that he might be on the spectrum for autism. Before her divorce, the poet felt like she was living in a scripted environment—as if her lines were written by another. The poet’s mother said, Couples who pray together stay together. The poet’s Tweets were an attempt to make people think his books were worth reading. The poet added the word incubator to one of his proposals, and the funding came through. At his fiftieth birthday party, the poet received only gag gifts. The poet put on a hula skirt, because it was grassy and wanted wear. The poet rocked a new Hawaiian shirt. The poet danced like nobody was watching. The poet was known for his penetrating hugs. The poet was a rascal. The poet asked, Am I a bitch because I get what I want? The poet used people. The poet would no longer allow himself to be used as a flotation device. For the poet, smiling was an act of mission. The poet was decorated with a great many fellowships.

III.

The poet’s handshake was shakey. There were frequencies lost to the poet’s aging ears. The poet hummed along with her housekeeper, trying to name the tune. The poet told the truth, but she told it slant. Over the years, the poet was invited to officiate the weddings of a half dozen former students. On their evening walk, the poet often pinched his wife’s behind as they approached Goose Lane. The poet couldn’t stop laughing the first time she said menopause and meant it. Seeing the word diurnal in print, made the poet have to pee. The poet’s children turned out just fine. The poet faced a shortening list of things to care about. Defined by her early work, the poet reveled in a sort of second puberty. The new Dean dubbed the poet an enemy of the institution. The poet feigned absentmindedness to conceal negligence. A lawyer read the first draft of the poet’s autobiography and advised him what to leave in and what to leave out. The poet realized that everybody he wanted to impress was already dead and buried. The poet performed his secret ministry of getting and spending. The poet’s eyesight was going, and he knew he would soon be blind. The poet tripped going up the stairs. The poet decided to title her memoir Klutz Ascending a Staircase. The poet eschewed formal protocols in the classroom. The poet threw in the towel. The mall was dying, and so was the poet. All of the poet’s checkers were off the board. The library called the poet to tell him he had a book overdue.

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The Poets, will be published by Erratum Press on April 1st. You can order a copy here.

William Walsh is the author of Forty-five American Boys, ON TV, Questionstruck, Unknown Arts, Without Wax, Pathologies, StephenKing StephenKing, and Ampersand, Mass.