A poem is a vessel, a vase,
a place to store heartache and
clarity. A poem simply is.
Can it be free from judgment?
A poem is a hot breeze in August.
It’s the end of summer. It’s wanting
to burn the Old World and
replace it with compassion. A poem
is an aneurysm. As much as
I’ve written that, it never gets
easier. It’s mourning your soul mate
except that your soul mate was a dog.
It’s as hard as breathing. It’s a cut
Deep, through flesh on your thigh.
It’s the hesitation. It’s a promise.
It’s the desire to do it again. It’s
a pull. It’s the clatter of dirty
spoons waiting for the fog to clear.
A poem is the Thing with Feathers.
Thank you, Emily.