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&nbsp;&nbsp;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.