My poem wears a warm cloak of anonymity.
It has green eyes and red hair.
It eats like an omnivore evolved from
the T-Rex and the Brontosaurus.
It dreams about children and schedules and love and violence.
It drives a modest car.
It lives in 1000 square feet where there is
too much art and not enough walls.
On weekends it likes to stay up to watch
the sunrise and then nap until noon.
It fears for the future of her children.
My poem is in love with humanity.
But, if my poem tells you she loves you,
you should not take that to mean she wants to marry you,
to have your babies or
to wash your socks.
And it wants to use words to paint pictures and evoke responses.
And it needs to open the skin to let the images bleed.
And it wishes that everyone who calls themselves a writer, then states that they never read poetry would realize they are only half the writer they could be.
And it wants to get into the hands of a million people so they will nod their heads and say ‘Yes’ I know exactly what she is saying.