I can count on a single hand
the number of times words
have made me cry. Not angry words, shouted

from shuttered faces and bitter hearts.
Not heartfelt words, whispered fervently
or pulled out of someone's mouth

by sheer force of need. The written word
has always held me in thrall, and yet
many words have always been required

to even come close to making me weep.
Your poems are a fraction of the length of books
that have touched me and thousands of lines shorter

than scenes that have made my tears
flow like water, until I tasted their salt, fresh
upon my lips. Your poems contain

an iota of the so-called literary genius
great authors possess, and less planning than their great works
of prose. But your poems are pain,

presented as gifts, doorways into your world.
I could count on a single hand
the number of times words had made me cry

until I read your poetry.