Sometimes I forget that I am a poet until I meter lost dreams into sonnets or I burn eggs into soot and draw out long lines in the pan

I forget that my fingers, though long and clumsy, routinely drum delicate cadences across the hard smooth surfaces of tables and door handles or even the soft hilly bits of flesh and fat

I forget the way that my teeth click and grind or the way that my toes dig and scratch into the rough patches under my feet

And the sound it makes

Or the rattle of my breath as I stomp and the room shakes
I forget that line that I inhale with smoke and exhale in contempt

I forget about the crunching of scratching and the rustling of shifting limbs
I forget about the restlessness in my palms and the sloshing of rough skin when they meet to make warmth  

I forget about the words spoken under my breath when my eyes have glossed over and my thought are darting across islands

I forget about the tangibility of my shifting whims and the sounds that they make as they make their homes in the walls around me
And the residual letters that shed from the carcassed corners of whims left for dead


Sometimes I forget because I am fickle and absent
Sometimes I just forget…
But then I remember
That I am a poet