How to Write a Poem
So, how does one make a poem? I wouldn't be able to tell you. What I can teach you is how to get lost in the details. How to look too close at the map, so all you're seeing are the city names and not the guy who's looking to escape the dinner table, or the girl who's straightening her hair to fit in.
Don't think too hard about it. Don't think too hard about it. Remember: don't think too hard about it.
(I dumpster dive to find the words, but I always come out with a rotten metaphor. The wrong feeling. I dig through my words and try to find the right one even though I don't know what shape I'm looking for. I don't know what it feels like. I can't taste it.)
Each word is a step in the wrong direction.
(They take me to a place I don't want to be.)
I'm sorry. I know you're here to learn about poems. Okay, I have a set of instructions. Are you ready?
Crush mountains. We liked valleys better anyway.
(I was always told to expose my bone with poetry, but I was never any good at committing violence.)
Peel the footprints from the sand and keep them in your purse. Look at them at school, at church, whenever the haunting taste of craving more wants to destroy you.
(The new dawn is red. I'm the only flesh and blood person among ghosts. I know I'm still alive. They gave up their hearts years ago.)
Get a scraped knee that won't heal. Find a raven that pecks at your exposed wounds. It won't leave as long as it smells blood.
(The friend I didn't know is gone for good. I felt cold from the inside out in the dead of winter.)
Find a hound. Find a beast that kills for fun. Promise yourself that you hate the monster. Lie.
(I held the brutal hound close to my chest, even though it snapped at my throat. I wanted that. The hound was mine. I whispered promises in its ear even though I knew I'd be dead by morning. I coiled my fingers in its fur, buried my face into its neck, and held on anyway, breathing in its smoky scent. Why couldn't the beast claim me?)
Leave when the night stalls in your throat. Then come back. Leave when the first traces of warm sunlight touch your face. Then follow the rope back home--back to where the hound is waiting for you.
Leave when the sun is overhead and hot (but you won't make it past the front door). Leave when the sun makes orange claw marks in the sky with its rough hands. Return when you feel that something's missing from its socket.
Come back a final time. Put your head between the hounds jaws and wait.
(I still trace the teeth marks that he left on my skin--the precious gouges below the ear and on my jaw--and smile.)
I can't tell you how to write a poem. They already exist.
Just open your mouth.
Bind your hands.
And listen.
Don't think too hard about it. Don't think too hard about it. Remember: don't think too hard about it.
(I dumpster dive to find the words, but I always come out with a rotten metaphor. The wrong feeling. I dig through my words and try to find the right one even though I don't know what shape I'm looking for. I don't know what it feels like. I can't taste it.)
Each word is a step in the wrong direction.
(They take me to a place I don't want to be.)
I'm sorry. I know you're here to learn about poems. Okay, I have a set of instructions. Are you ready?
Crush mountains. We liked valleys better anyway.
(I was always told to expose my bone with poetry, but I was never any good at committing violence.)
Peel the footprints from the sand and keep them in your purse. Look at them at school, at church, whenever the haunting taste of craving more wants to destroy you.
(The new dawn is red. I'm the only flesh and blood person among ghosts. I know I'm still alive. They gave up their hearts years ago.)
Get a scraped knee that won't heal. Find a raven that pecks at your exposed wounds. It won't leave as long as it smells blood.
(The friend I didn't know is gone for good. I felt cold from the inside out in the dead of winter.)
Find a hound. Find a beast that kills for fun. Promise yourself that you hate the monster. Lie.
(I held the brutal hound close to my chest, even though it snapped at my throat. I wanted that. The hound was mine. I whispered promises in its ear even though I knew I'd be dead by morning. I coiled my fingers in its fur, buried my face into its neck, and held on anyway, breathing in its smoky scent. Why couldn't the beast claim me?)
Leave when the night stalls in your throat. Then come back. Leave when the first traces of warm sunlight touch your face. Then follow the rope back home--back to where the hound is waiting for you.
Leave when the sun is overhead and hot (but you won't make it past the front door). Leave when the sun makes orange claw marks in the sky with its rough hands. Return when you feel that something's missing from its socket.
Come back a final time. Put your head between the hounds jaws and wait.
(I still trace the teeth marks that he left on my skin--the precious gouges below the ear and on my jaw--and smile.)
I can't tell you how to write a poem. They already exist.
Just open your mouth.
Bind your hands.
And listen.
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