choke on poetry.
I read poetry, write poetry, choke on poetry.
Lines making sharp k-turns in on themselves
allowing no space for interpretation because my
own words interfere with his words and
then these words are discarded as not-quite-something enough.
This body was made to grow things.
Babes. Wishes. Words.
Growth means many things and I used to think these things good.
Too much is too much.
I’m being picky with expression; learning what it feels like to struggle with everything that’s left.
Thoughts root whether or not we nurture them
the burden of a creative mind.
the setback of an everyday.
Life can grow through concrete slab and, much the same, words find their way.
Wash dishes and watch as hopeful words sprout from damp fingers.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
Snip. Snip. Snip.
Into a jar. On the windowsill.. for later.
Chase sleep and listen as angry words bellow from a place you only vaguely know of as “away”
Stuff. Stuff. Stuff.
Fluff. Fluff. Fluff.
Into your pillow. Under your head.. for tomorrow.
Fit tasks into hours and feel the moment explode as language swells impatiently to incomprehensible dimensions.
Pick. Pick. Pick.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
Into a glass. Onto the shelf.. for soon.
But the foundation can’t hold with all these hidden messages, all these waiting words.
I’ll have to compose
for fear of losing this house we call home.
for fear of being a home-wrecker in this nasty little love affair they call “art”
[image: Luciana Urtiga]