Often thought of as the genteel art form.
But I’ve known poets who were fierce.
And feral. Whose words cut.
Like a blade. Whose words smelled.
Of gasoline. Pumped
Freon. Into veins.
Poetry at its most punch-packed
is all our stories. The ones we bury.
The ones that try to bury us.
A feisty turn of phrase. A graceful cadence.
A rhythmic pulse that sings. That brings
music to the proceedings. This army of love.
Carving the space that can hold all the trauma.
We can no longer hold.
The more creviced and stuck in greasy corners.
The more light is shed. And thus.
This magnificent beast that is
as the doorway into gratitude.
The genteel is power also. Hath caused many a heart
to crack open with its beauty. It’s simply not
The IT and the ALL
of what poetry is. Not by a
—shall I compare thee to a summer’s day—