Rochelle Hope Mehr
The Misspelled Word
Another perfect metaphor:
I can’t spell “maneuver.”
My mother caught the error in the poem.
My hands are numb and I can’t
manipulate the corkscrew.
I can’t tap sap
from the mother lode.
Now I mix metaphors
to deflect the criticism.
To bend the assay
my way.
To remind myself
that the inner sense
can make sense
of a misspelled word.
That perfection
often flirts with the absurd.
That I can maneuver my way
out of these manacles
which bind, most restrictively,
the mind.
