Writing
What a disgraceful gesture I do as I grab the pen while something stirs
in the air: the skin of my nature. Like when late in the day he raised
his arm and embraced me with a humble glory as his gurgling voice
resembled a child’s who recited a heroic poem before execution. His
hand with the chewed nails was inserted inside me so that I’d become
my own movement of internment; I finished each poem by staying in
touch with it. I bring my desk and my papers to the new erogenous
landscape. I start writing. I start the small engine. In the third verse
the new inspiration has overwhelmed me. I suppose he’s alive and that
exhausts me. I start imaging more than what I do. my hands get
sweaty. I put down the pen I wipe the three fingers that held it
between my fat thighs. Creation is in full blast.
