What Poetry Told Me
The week Poetry stayed at my house,
she kept a razor in a wooden box. Poetry
refused to abandon her ancestors
and paid homage to the octagonal black
tourmaline rising up from underneath
the burden of boulders. She joined in song
with La Virgen and burned down the barriers between us.
She was interested in rhyme and the metaphorical.
Her rhythm shattered glass, but she did not finish
what she began to carve into stone. She was fickle.
First she drank mead, then preferred a martini.
Poetry wore a new necklace every day. Still,
she prayed for us. Words as omens and talismans.
But she couldn’t really do anything. She never
made dinner or even brewed coffee.
She was horrible at baking.
Soon enough, Poetry abandoned everything,
left flour all over the counters,
the dough proofing unbaked in the oven.
On her way to the airport,
she texted one last entreaty,
something about an old oak tree
unfurling leaves, glossy and new
but with sharpened points
that can make a poet bleed.
Notes:
This poem is part of the portfolio “The Chorus These Poets Create: Twenty Years of Letras Latinas.” You can read the rest of the portfolio in the December 2024 issue.
Source: Poetry (December 2024)