Putting Down The Pen


this must feel

similar to dying:



breath-theft; like

an unwelcome man

the sky is on me



and all of its

accusing planets --

nine womb-rooted

children; their

too-soon screaming

hurts me like

fresh-cut horizon:



you can’t write

loud enough




it should be

nothing without

blood; without

unsnapped

fingers or the

great-big-bleak



but I hear what’s

said in the not-said;



I hear it like

Hiroshima

in my head



until all the poetry

I ever wrote

is comma-curled

in death.

 

suzzie1107 suzzie1107
22-25, F
Mar 8, 2010