Start with topic: I chould choose
to write about that time I escaped
my office by smashing the man
who was trying to push down
my pants with a telephone, or
about the boy so long ago, I could
choose a more consistant muse,
the knife, the pain, the food. I could
write about anal sex, or street sweepers,
or about kissing girls in church nursery rooms.
After choosing what to write
about comes the tricky part:
discovering the words the phrases
that make up that thing that I don’t
yet know I wanted to say.
I told you once, I’ve learned
to shut up
and lay low, everything will work
out without me. I’ve learned
until late, write
a poem. Shut up.
Lay low. There was no one
to call, the button
on the phone didn’t work – the words
I never used to defend
myself. Why didn’t you
believe me? Why didn’t I
remember then, when you
taught me this – the words
I still can’t say about him.
It’s still here, still looming, I use
it too. Its an addiction one cannot
escape like booze – the words that echo.
The things that aren’t
supposed to feel ok always do – the words
of the body.