Poetry is quick like anger, slow like sadness, and
lingering like grief.
It flickers and flares
at intervals. It can be traced like emotions
highs and lows. Pour out
or be pushed forward
This form, it fits me in all my sizes; conforms to my angles
and curves like a second skin.
It holds me –
forming sinew and bone,
calluses, and tender places like the
spot just behind and below the ear
when I hear it whisper like a lover,
come. Come to me in darkness; in light
fill me up to overflowing, spilling
upon the shadows where I’ve trod.
Hold candle to despair and show
the path ensnared with vines and brambles
slashing forth and urging onward.
It tells me, “don’t give up.”