Poetry,
I
want you
to
read me –
to
flip to my single page
in
this ever-growing
global
anthology
and
be drawn in initially by the
ink
wells of my eyes
that
have been dipped into
several
times to write
the
calligraphy of my smile.
You’ll
find my first lines
brimming
my underlids and flowing
with
tears that glide
at
night, dripping
free-versely
down my neck,
my
arms, my feet – the ink of the words sinking
into
the different strophes
of
my skin, staining
each
filament inside.
Poetry,
please, I don’t want you
to
read me
with
a lens – no postmodernism, no formalism –
but
just as what you see:
macroscopic,
single-spaced,
streaming
consciously and enjambed
at
each unpolished thought turn
the
sulci of my grey matter takes.
Poetry,
then scrutinize me with
a
little bit of patience –
find
yourself pondering
along
the question marks
that
these ears of mine shape
and
analyze the stanza breaks between my ribs
exposing
heart you maybe didn’t see
the
first time.
Keep
rereading me,
Poetry,
and
gather all the details drawn
by
the unexpected diction
carved
into my mandible,
inaudible
and permanent,
and
decide for me my true setting.
Fold
the corner, my shoulder,
to
save my page,
keep
me warm,
and
return
to me,
Poetry.
