"Poem after poem comes - which perhaps is how poets pray." Alice Walker.

1. Spend your seventh days roasting
in the roots of my teeth.
Make space in the canopies of flesh
fluttering above my heart,
take off your cool,
rest your dreams
on the shelf of my ribs,
and be at home.
All I want is to be full of you
because there are moments
when I am afraid that I'll run out of mornings or ink.

Or both.

2. There are people who are afraid
of running out of poems
or poets to retreat inside
so they Solomon sing us praises
as if we pen their salvation in these poems.

But I am no Moses.
This staff is made of ink and plastic.
These wings are made of wax and plaster.
So I melt.
Sometimes into the lap of a Ford's
front seat when the moon gets stale
and the communion kicks in;
sometimes onto a computer screen
with one tab drenched in my fears
while another plays Lalah Hathaway's 'Outrun the Sky';
Sometimes the Talenti melts
before I can pretend that writing
fixes everything.
And that *****.

3. It is a privilege to be a poet.
To carve myself into a sanctuary
for folks who need an altar
at midnight. To shed my skin
between the blue pews
of a page or a stage.

4. I owe a lot to writers
for lending me their voices
before I knew
my own
and for being a part of the village
that raised this baby
with a backbone
made of ballpoint.
I am a writer
with too few tongues but with what I have
I am grateful.