the retreat

you arrive late
for the poetry reading
and find a seat
in back. there are
a hundred women
there holding notebooks
and pads, big purses
and fancy
eyewear with red
frames, or electric
blue. like chameleons
stilled on their
faces. there is one
man from india
who introduces them
and another man with
a beard and blushed
face who seems
important. ten women
will read a poem they wrote
about the writing center,
the retreat where
they retreat from house
and home, siblings
and husbands who
are like vague
stalks of brush,
children too,
in the wind. there is
a poem about a fox.
one about the snow.
another about a child
lost. all good poems.
all well read, performed.
you sigh, and sink
a little into your seat.
unsure of why this is
so disheartening.