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Best Poems Written by Diana Raab

Below are the all-time best Diana Raab poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Diana Raab Poem

Retail Therapy

Yesterday I found myself slumped
into the saddest of trenches,
for no particular reason
other than a new moon cycle.
Instead of flopping myself
in my studio’s armchair to write,
I drove to the mall for an outing 
probably more expensive than 
what a therapist would charge
for an hour in his armchair. 

I wandered into the shoe store—
something about leather 
which grounds me, whether
the flimsy strapless heels 
or the closed-toed pumps or walkers. 

Already lugging two bags, I meander
into the lingerie store for silk 
to accentuate my only remaining 
middle-age curves, skipping over the thongs
and hesitating at the push-up section.

I try on four or five pairs of underwear
to accentuate my butt area,
the part of a woman which shares the 
secret of her fitness, that I work on 
each morning at seven.

I arrive at the boutique who sells my favorite 
blouses, gather some more bags, walking out
with an almost terminal case of rope burn,
until I finally decide it’s time to head back to my car. 
On my way I stop, smile, and realize 
there’s no better way to fight trench warfare.

Details | Diana Raab Poem

Fortune Cookie

Sunday evening, suburban New York,
we ate at the corner Chinese restaurant,
its fish tank hypnotic, the smiling 

welcome from the Chinese woman 
caressing menus to her chest, 
who led us to the booth which stuck 

to my legs as I slid across to my 
designated spot. Dad promised 
me a fortune cookie on the way out, 

which I took from the bowl by the door. 
We ate spareribs, licked our fingers 
and laughed, trying to pick kennels of rice 

and long noodles with splintered
chopsticks. We praised the food, 
but wondered why we often left hungry

for both food and fortune, after extracting
mine from the smashed cookie, reading then
putting the crumbled paper in my pocket, 

to be found weeks later, hoping somehow 
the words would have changed 
and the little paper whispered 

truths about my own future,
rather than just giving dad the
numbers for his weekly lottery.

Details | Diana Raab Poem

Heritage Sponges

At least once a month
the stench from my kitchen
sponge gets so bad I refuse 

one more soap saturation
of this primitive sessile. 
Why is it that I can’t toss 

these replicas of marine life, 
amongst the simplest animal form, 
free of tissues, muscles, nerves 

and internal organs? After all, 
during the course of one day I toss out 
all sorts of rubbish—paper towels, 

chicken bones, cheese rind, empty cartons,
newspapers and rotten fruit, but have developed 
a deep attachment with this soggy, smelly 

two-dollar purchase. I take it into my hands 
and scan it,  as if looking for the spot 
of defending stench or to hear the ocean 

from where it came. Finally, I decide 
to toss the thing into the dishwasher 
with my daily load, to keep it vital 

a little longer, perhaps a day or a week
or at least until I’m able to establish a degree
of separation from this rectangular block.

My only explanation for this drama
is my daughter is a vegetarian and animal rights’ 
activist, and like her, I want to save all creatures.

Details | Diana Raab Poem

Nirvana

Stepping through its beaded door
was like walking into a time cloud, 
whiffs of marijuana and hashish pipes
lined up by color in the cabinet 
to the right, behind which stood
a hippie and his girl, with beads
and long hair, who lived in the VW van
parked in the rear, the one 
splattered with colorful peace 
signs like the psychedelic posters 
on their store’s walls, glowing
under the hidden black light. 

Nirvana was a safe haven, 
offering a calm which transcended 
my fifteen-year-old my psyche, 
magnified by the freedom 
to wander through without shoes 
or purchase, unlike the neighboring stores 
on Union Turnpike in the heart of Queens. 

The place exuded the potent energy
of my love generation. I wish 
there was a store like it here  
in my new neighborhood, but I suppose 
I’ll have to settle for the natural health 
food store, which offers the same sort of claim.

Details | Diana Raab Poem

Naked

When my body decided to get sick again,
six sinus infections since last birthday,
I marched into the best ENT specialist,
waiting room lined with Hollywood’s
finest stars begging for reasons why they
couldn’t reach the octave of the day before,
impatiently flipping through old magazines,
interrupted by cell phones ringing in unison.

I got the lead role, thanks for your inquiry,
want to go to Hawaii for the weekend? Susie 
died. Funeral tomorrow. Allan’s away on business.
This doctor sucks. I have lunch with Ellen at noon. 
Dad’s in the hospital. Freckles just had pups, want one?

My name is called. I shuffle behind the nurse,
my chart clasped to her chest like the baby 
she might never have had, into the shoebox size room 
packed with instruments I didn’t know, 
despite three years of nursing school.

The suave, forty-something doctor,
released my X-rays from their sleeve,
and mounted them onto a screen. 
He looked up through his sleek wire frames, 
“You’re absolutely beautiful on the outside,
but a mess on the inside.” I wondered if 
he was making a pass or soliciting
a surgical procedure and how many times 
he repeated that line, loud enough for 
the pedestrians five floors down to hear 
this and the other truths about my battlefields—
three C-sections, knee surgery, twice a victim 
of what strikes one in eight women, and reconstructed 
organs of sensuality with tattoos to hide their truths.

Now I dodge doctors as one avoids the cones 
at the scene of an accident, but I can’t dodge this one.
My voice is hoarse, my breathing is shot
and I envy those vacuous starlets in the
waiting room, listening to their chitter 
chatter on cell phones. I sit in the exam room 
before the surgeon tells me one more time, 
something I need to do to hang onto my life, 
but I’d rather be the person before the scalpel found me.