It won't bite

The poem is a trap. A thought paces 
inside — ugly, radical, fractured, 
fork-tongued, incoherent — masked 
by metaphor or sickened with rhyme 
or sweetened with soulless platitudes. 

The thought has as much freedom 
as the poet dares to give it. The poet 
gives it as much freedom as she 
believes she has. She writes in fractions, 
discounts, erosions. The leash is 
tight, straining against her wrists. 

Then there is the reader, reading 
too much or too little into the 
poem. Sometimes, they lock eyes 
with the thought, which stares 
back: bloodied, desperate, rat-like. 
Sometimes the thought holds their 
hand. They can set the thought free. 
Or the thought can liberate them. 
They smile at each other. Quiet. 
They conspire against the poet. 

But the poet can dream. The poet 
has the freedom to wish this much 
at least will happen: That her
plan works. That the poem can 
manifest wings. That the reader
can open a cage. That the thought 
can escape, become airborne. 

#Poetry

Apr 2024