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 says
don't fuck with me
in 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.