Collaging in middle age

National/Global Poetry Writing Month, Day 1. Hooray!

My first grown-up collage (and supplies).

NaPoWriMo.net Prompt #1: “As with pretty much any discipline, music and art have their own vocabulary. Today, we challenge you to take inspiration from this glossary of musical terms, or this glossary of art terminology, and write a poem that uses a new-to-you word” (full post here.)”

Confession: I already knew what “collage” meant, more or less. But I got snagged on that word and decided to go with it anyway.

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It wasn’t supposed to be this way. 
I sat down to follow a writing prompt 
guaranteed to lead me somewhere safe—or maybe not safe
but somewhere known.

Instead I am cutting up picture books:
the ones that fell apart
the ones my youngest son tore apart
(too pretty to throw away).

I haven’t collaged since middle school
when I sliced a mélange of sleek advertisements:
high heels that made my real feet bleed
red lips that made my real mouth itch.

Is collage meant to be bits of myself 
that I clip into snips and stick to the page
careful not to make it too dark? To dice too deeply? 
What is the lesson I learned this morning
my fingers growing gummed with glue?

Maybe it’s okay if there’s no lesson.
It’s okay to crop and paste, leading nowhere 
safe or known. It’s okay to just be
surrounded by scraps, scissors in hand
washing the rest with watercolor.