Poem I
Q and A: Do you write about real stuff or do you make it all up?
I would like to say that I invented
how darkness sometimes twists
into light, heats the dust motes till they are a million flares,
fragile chests of fire. I would like to say
that I had no mother
but seemed to know just the same
the cool hand of love to fever, that I've never
spit or hummed or hated. I would like to say that
my brain is a little god churning out creation,
not the addled priest
who wakes up each morning, picks up his wicker basket
to fill with every dirty thing he finds,
who spends his nights hunched over silver polish,
buttons and spoons.
Even now, can't you hear
the clicking bones of my unlit, hissing strokes?
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