i meant to write another poem
but it always seems to come down to this:
language and its secret pockets
where we fill the spaces
with questions –
how to speak words like Truth, hope, joy.
how to uncover a lie. heal a wound.
and so i wait.
unsure if this is strategic or because of fear.
or perhaps it is neither. perhaps
it is the thought
that it simply couldn’t be true,
that this story has been embellished,
that the eyes have too much kohl,
the mouth too red, nails
too exact, something not quite right.
still, i want to convince you.
i must. and this is the weight
words carry. they carry life or death.
they hold blessings or curses.
they catch the light or
so i keep looking for the right words
for the right time, polishing them and
preparing the settings --
that you might wear them and keep them close,
that they might rest next to
your skin, that they might
find a home in your story.
it all comes down to this.