Wrenched from the insides, pulled without
any meaning, just words then. Anyone can
have ‘just words.’ Dug out from silent, sad shells
and exposed to worldly light, see the beauty
that the poet never saw in their creations
themselves. Buried deep beneath sorrow and joy,
tucked into the corners and crevices, hiding
in the delicate arch of the foot, the pulse of the wrist,
pressed into hips flowing (so fluid), begging to be
freed from rib cages and lungs with a quick breath.
The words beg to be released from you, the shell, you
are the planter, the incubator, the creator, the words
grow in you and they are nothing without you. You
craft them, you always (unwillingly) have, and they
come across on paper in this powerful, staccato rhythm
and they are yours alone and you continue
carving them into your skin and your brain and
whatever else there is. (Can you call it carving?
Maybe those words were always imprinted on
you, on your heart and lungs, down to your bones,
and you are the archaeologist uncovering them.)
They belong to you, you belong to them.