Poetry Magazine has officially rejected me
eleventy one times. I am vaguely aware
this means something, but I can’t answer
what. I know it means something.

Twelve of the poems Poetry Magazine rejected
because my middle name was too loose.
I can understand that.

Nine of the poems Poetry Magazine rejected
where dedicated to mortal men unworthy
of a poem, even from a bad poet writing
bad poetry.

Seven of the poems Poetry Magazine rejected
were in regards of short greedy men
in heavy metal underwear, drunk on heavy beer.
I can live with that.

Three of the poems Poetry Magazine rejected
because they didn’t ring true. They had an air
of pomposity, or a flamingly stupid premise
awash in the me-ness of me.

The last poem that Poetry Magazine rejected
was mostly white
space – and clearly racist
since only humans were represented
(even though one was dressed up as a dragon)

I have to learn to live with that.

I am not good enough for Poetry Magazine
possibly because I am too fat or too old or
too human or too broken
or too broke

Who knows? Maybe someone with an MFA
or a pet monkey named Elizabeth
in a diaper covered in little monkeys
not named Elizabeth.

Leanne might know. Frankly, I’m sure she does,
but I don’t actually care that I’ve been rejected
so it never occurs to me to ask her.