To the Man Who Said Only Sharon Olds Can Break a Line on a Word Like “To”

(First of all, fuck you.)

Sadly it’s always been my inclination to

give you the benefit of the doubt

even now, as you busily mine

my poems for the absent stepfather trauma,

or the climax never reached.

(Look, I’m starting to sound like you.)

In the small room of your mind

art is refolded and redisplayed

after a shopper holds it up, decides

it’s not a good fit at this time. Loose

button, incomplete seam. To

the clearance rack, please. Can a poem contain

a woman if there is no mention of her

breasts? My work is no longer timeless

if I mention brand names, contemporary

trends. If I’m Anne Sexton in sneakers

eating at Krispy Kreme. Here now, I’m

Sylvia Plath on Tumblr. I’m prosey, familiar.

Like something you’ve read before. Narrative

is passé, but people are just afraid of sincerity,

isn’t that what you told me? A poem must

have trout in a river and an old Ford pickup to

be about America and death. Torture, salvation.

Must end on an image, one that’s been earned.

I’m not sure you get the about-ness of the poem,

but it reminded you of Frank O’Hara.

Maybe even Taylor Swift.

Paige Sullivan is a poet and writer living in Atlanta. A graduate of the creative writing programs at Agnes Scott College and Georgia State University, her work has appeared or will soon appear in RHINO Poetry, Harpur Palate, Cherry Tree, and other journals.