Because there’s something in me
that rattles at my ribs like a birdcage.
For my brother, for former lovers,
and many others.
To remember with a smile what we
usually do with tears.
In an attempt to say the things
we cannot say.
Poetry smells like
burning sage, feels
like grainy leather and
sounds like Mon Coer Est Rouge in your
friend’s
old, beat-up chevy.
But it feels so right,
it feels like that perfect, eye-rolling
stretch after a long day.
And it has been a long day.
