and i am tired of reading
all of these words i wrote as if
i thought i might actually
know something
i am tired
of these empty notebooks
like mute accusations
if you were in this room
right now
you would smell desperation
would feel a small cool breeze as
the storm pushes its way north
picture it
three years in this house
and i know none of my neighbors
ten years in this town
and i refuse to call it home
and did i pray
at my father’s bedside
in the last days before his death?
no
and does this
make me a bad person?
i’ve been told that it does
and there is a man
who returns what i send him with
a note that says
“these are not poems”
and there is the possibility that
he’s right
there are my hands
crippled with self-doubt
burned and then healed
and then burned again until
they refuse to acknowledge the
simple pain of passing days
and if i don’t call myself
an artist
then i can’t be crucified
as a witch
the logic is subtle
but it’s there
think of war
