The poem is alive the same way a song shakes the skin awake— the way BB works one note until it bleeds, or Miles's trumpet marches us to Calvary. Don't you speak the poem for the brine that scours your palate? Don't you breathe its pockets of silence? Haven't you found yourself alone with only the poem to knead your toughest knots? When twelve bars & an ode won't suffice, I need a poem that bites. I present to you this poem as bloodletting. Not to teach you. Not to love me. I'm experimenting with sound 'til I find the combination that saysdon't fuck with mein any language. I'm swinging for the heart with every line. I want to tear into you a deep song, and I want your wound to never heal.
This poem was first published in The Bosphorus Review of Books.