The Way We Spill

…

We fill
ourselves with ink and sighs,
pull parchment from the nearest tree.

Clack keys.

Please:
here’s my heart.
Can you read it?

Hold it softly. It tears.
It’s salty and sometimes
it swears. It’s got cracks.
See the light?

We fight
in black and white.
Press quill to page and words
to heart. Start somewhere. End
someplace we’ve never been.

We hold
it all out with shaking
hand; hope someone under
-stands up for what our stories say.

We play
with words. With lines. With space.
We kern-dance and we lead
ourselves to wandered wonder.

We gather
and we read. Feed off of each other’s
feast of phrase. Drink in reverence,
awe.

Call ourselves poets.
Know it’s true.

 

This crazy month of writing is coming to a close. This is for each and every one of you who wrote, commented, and braved this gorgeous insane month of poetry. You rock. I am thankful for your words, and your inspiration. Write on.

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